"Emma, do you really think you need to go to a therapist?" I thought about it for a minute. Yesterday morning I had a session with a thoughtful therapist for issues still slightly unclear. I liked the therapist, although I couldn't really articulate my problems. I said that I would like to be nicer. Not the nicest person in the world, but nicer. The therapist said he had never had anyone come to him because they want to be nicer. He theorized that my alleged meanness might be a symptom of control. The control might be a barrier to being vulnerable. Everyone has a barrier to being vulnerable. Like everyone on the planet. 

Late Monday afternoon, I sat down for a light lunch in Soho with one of the smartest, most creative women I know. She went immediately into a project she is working on and for the first twenty minutes or so we talked about work, my writing, her graduate program and some of our career goals. Someone recently told me that in the average feature film, if two women are talking, they statistically and factually don't have a dialogue longer than two minutes on any subject except for men and relationships. If we were a movie, we would beat the odds, Stace.

And we will be a movie.

Unfortunately our streak broke when the waiter asked if we needed anything else then told us his name. "That's my ex boyfriend's name," I said out loud. "But I won't hold it against you." He looked confused as to why someone would say such an idiotic thing and walked away. I glanced at Stacy hoping maybe she might let it slide, but she sat there wide-eyed and shocked until finally she shouted, "A WOMAN SCORNED! Emma!" Then she added in a softer, more pathetic tone, "Oh Emma."

Because hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

What am I so mad about though, she asked. My ex boyfriend and I were not getting what we wanted out of the relationship. Whether it's accurate or not, I truly felt like I was giving more. As previously discussed, 99% is not 100%. Plus I have several amazing guys to date who are all funny, positive and hot. One of whom single-handedly inspired my screenplay idea that trumps over twenty years of dude- inspired creativity. On my Saturday afternoon run a sixteen year old kid turned his car around and pulled up next to me and asked if he could "catch" my number. Sunday evening an extremely attractive salt-and-peppered man wearing Vans and a jersey cotton cardigan asked if could take me out to dinner. Plus, I probably have another year or two before I actually need Botox. And that waiter was kind of cute.

But my ability to date was never in question.

So I did what any other first-world woman would do, and I emailed my former graduate psychology professor asking him to recommend a therapist. I have no reason, save bratty self-loathing, to be "scorned" by a relationship we mutually agreed to exit...again. As reassuring as it is to have a wide range of suitors, I cannot continue to use dudes as a coping mechanism for other dues. I will not let "scorn" invade my leisurely Monday lunch. I'm too positive for that.

Positive people do not become "scorned."

Emma Dinzebach

"Now just because you have all this space, doesn't mean you can bring all your stuff over," my boyfriend explained as he showed me the shelf in his closet where he had moved my things. I looked over at the pile of clothes - two luon tops, two pairs of boyshorts, one shirt to sleep in a pair of jeans all neatly folded in a teeny pile that barely equaled the size of a man's sweatshirt. I'm small. On either side were stacks of his clothing. 

What I want most out of life - what I anticipate will make me most happy - falls into four boxes: 1) a successful writing career 2) a loving, consistent relationship 3) two children (oldest girl, youngest boy) and 4) a chic but rustic second home where I can escape with friends or find blissful solace. I also want a blonde French Bulldog. I'll call him Pedro. And a closet full of handbags. A handbag closet. In an effort to create said happiness, I have decide to start getting serious about what is really inside these boxes.  

Walking home from work, I wondered when and where I would find the inspiration to sit down and finish (re)writing my book. For the past few weeks I've hoped that one of these days, I will feel inspired to sit down and complete the one thing I think I actually meant to do. Said completion will inspire me to create more and create more and I'll become one of those writers who can crank out books, screenplays, editorials and short stories ad nauseum.

Then a wave of fear came over and me: What if it never hits me? What if I never find inspiration and live an unfulfilled, mediocre life? My name never appearing in movie credits, my career never that successful, my life moving monotonously from moment to moment without authentic drive or ambition to guide it. Imagine I become one of those people who have live through their children. Mediocrity breeds mediocrity. Picturing my mediocre children launched me deeply below the line. What is all for anyway? I wondered as my intense fear gave way to apathy. Somewhere around 35th Street I decided that nothing that I do really matters. We all die after suffering the boring, dullness of human existence. And if so, what's the point of creating? 


Unconsciously, I crossed the street to walk in the sun.

Work and personal issues weighed on my mind contributing to my downtrodden mood. These I felt comfortable expressing to my boyfriend, who patiently sat on the phone with me while I spewed worry upon worry void of rhyme or reason, purposefully dodging the real fear of disinterested failure. I couldn't tell him I was actually worried that I wasn't going to amount to anything great. That my entire existence was potentially pointless. That I was just a semi-talented girl with a blog that eventually readers will tire of. Because seriously, how many failed dilemmas can you have before everyone actually gives up on you? And I haven't even truly failed yet because I haven't fully tried! On top of everything else, I couldn't tell him I wasn't even trying because I am hopelessly uninspired. He suggested I "relax" and "take my mind off things."

I said I would try, which meant I wouldn't try at all.

I hung up the phone and burst into tears. I cried and cried. When the sobbing stopped, I wiped my eyes and walked over to my computer. I stood there staring at a quote from Werner Herzog via someone via Elizabeth Gilbert hanging above my desk.


Not particularly inspired or energized and having just released any trace of motivating emotion, I sat down to write. I will become the boring, useless, blah-ness I feel unless I turn it into something...anything. The world doesn't care that I'm uninspired; they care why I'm uninspired. Why am I uninspired? I asked myself. Then it occurred to me, I'm uninspired because I'm in a loving, committed and stable relationship. There are no issues. There is no drama. I have no complaints. Alas, I trust that he really loves me through and through. I'm too in love to be seen in public. I'm too in love to make good use of my time. And most unfortunately, I'm uninspired by love. I mean, love doesn't inspire great art, loathing inspires great art.

Everybody knows that.

Emma Dinzebach

Getting back together take four was a hard one to explain to friends and family. I understand they don't want to see me caught in the happy, hurt, repeat cycle. I totally get it. I don't want to see myself stuck in that cycle either. It was bound to happen sooner or later though. I mean, when you still love someone despite getting a shitty Valentine present and then selfishly think about your ass rather than what a stormy exit might indicate about your ability to be a stand for calm compromise. When you can't stop thinking about the person despite all efforts to distract yourself by drooling over hot abs and dedicating yourself to weight loss. When you wake up in the middle of the night pretty sure the other person is up in the middle of the night and both stare at your phones before falling back asleep. It's a picture perfect get-back-together scenario. People write movies about this.

I'll likely write a movie about this.

Friends asked what happened with the orthopedist my neighbor was determined to set me up with or the guy I brought to brunch. The truth is, those guys just never stood a chance. Not a chance. Rebounds are meant to propel you forward, but in my case they caused deep comparisons - the doctor wasn't as artistic, the outdoorsy guy wasn't as neat, the repeat banker knew nothing about music. These guys didn't have intrinsic personal style. Their hands weren't as big.

To be fair, other guys even approached me. I stood barside one night with my smokin' hot friend and asked her why no guys ever hit on me. She candidly explained that I give off the unavailable and don't-even-bother-talking-to-me vibe. I do? That can't be good. My trainer confirmed that he has been a dude for a long time in a lot of different cities, and even he wouldn't approach me. He said it's hard enough to approach girls like me when we are being nice, when we aren't, forget it. "You have to be extra nice," he ordered. So I tried. I really did; my niceness lacked authenticity. Most people wouldn't even consider it nice. There were (regrettable) times I gave up and instead acted dismissive and important. Like some people have a low metabolic rate, I have an innately low nice quotient. If I'm genuinely kind it's because I love you, you inspire me, and I want great things for you. Without that, my messed-up mind thinks you really don't deserve my niceness. Niceness is liquid gold and I'm extra cautious about who I gift it.

My love language is gifts.

Then I woke up one morning a couple weeks ago and decided the only person on earth who I love, inspires me and I want great things for who isn't currently receiving said gold is my ex-boyfriend. And I haven't always given it to him. I don't know if I was reserving it for some special occasion or simply being stingy. Either way, I can't imagine my life without him and he deserves all the glistening golden niceness and love to boot. Going forward that is what I'm giving him.

And since I'm happier, I hope the liquid gold will spill over to everyone else.

Emma Dinzebach

I've been working out with my wonderful lululemon athletica ambassador, Washingtonian health blogger, and all around hot stuff personal trainer Errick McAdams for two weeks now because I am once and for all intent on losing five pounds. Combined with our training I've been running my little legs off, yoga-ing and logging every-single-thing I eat so I stay within my net calories. I know it sounds exhausting, but it's just an app on my phone that stores everything I eat. It really doesn't take that long. The time is not my concern, it's the intentionality of the effort I am putting forth. I want to weigh five pounds less.

I got on the scale yesterday and...I still have five pounds to lose.

What the fuck? Maybe I was retaining water. Maybe I shouldn't have gotten on the scale at two in the afternoon. Maybe I should have drank more water or had less salt or less sugar or more protein or less leafy greens or... After two intentional weeks, I am getting frustrated. Recall, I am the number one fan of instant gratification. I love things that happen quickly and efficiently. I thrive in fast paced environments. I fail when following through requires lots of time and patience and practice. But everything in my life that I want right now requires time and patience and practice.

Shit.

Patience and practice are not my strong suits, and consequently, I'm getting into a rut thinking that I'm horrible at writing a book, horrible at losing weight, horrible at handstand, even horrible at dating. I am tempted to give up and start something I know I can do well quickly. New writing topic. New fitness goal. New guy.

"Is that absolutely true?" asked my mom yesterday when I told her that there are more-than-several chapters in my book that are horrible. I can tell. The chapters I nail right away are the good chapters that make me proud and actually want to write a book. The other chapters sound like someone else's voice. They are awkward and stupid. Anyone with half a brain can write those chapters, and the thought of rewriting them makes me nauseated. It's too hard to make them good. 

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Is it absolutely true that those chapters are bad? That it's too hard to make them good?" she asked again.

"Well, they sound stupid," I said. "The chapters that are good are the chapters I nail the first time around."

"So if you don't do something well the first time around, then it can never be good?" she asked, questioning my limiting belief about the chapters.

I laughed because that is so ridiculous. There are tons of things that I do horribly the first time around: headstand, giving feedback, my expense reports, managing a budget, breaking up, riding a bike and actually using the gears - that I am now quite good at.

"Why would the book be any different?" she asked.

It's not. I have to change my thinking about my diet and the book - remove my limiting beliefs. I need to believe in my willful determination and remove the impatience, fear and boredom that hold me back from achieving my goals. If I give up, then I'm just that same girl who cried diet... and girl who cried writing a book. Sure, following through is difficult for me and yes I thrive in the beginning stages of things, and there are many times in life when I have practiced and practiced and practiced and succeeded well past stage one. No one gets Jennifer Aniston's body by getting stuck in the beginning, not even Jennifer Aniston. And unfinished books rarely get movie contracts. These things aren't supposed to happen the first time around. The achievement is the actual journey, not simply the end result.

Oh, and I need to eat less.

Emma Dinzebach

Photo: http://deviot.tumblr.com/post/4061952343/missnikkimoore-cox-lastdaysofmagic-writers

Which for me are really like fourth and fifth chances. Late Monday afternoon, in a quick but brutal discussion about my ex-boyfriend, my friend said to me, "No guys deserve a second chance, Emma." I defensively started on why I had given so many chances my ex-boyfriends but third and fourth chances with my recent. I'm a romantic...and a perfectionist. I'm hyper self-aware and believe that by taking 100% personal responsibility for what I contribute to the relationship and changing accordingly, I can make it work out. Everything is in my realm of control, right? He cut me off, "I'm not saying in this instance. In general, no second chances."

Well maybe a second chance, but certainly not a third for a fourth and hell no! not a fifth chance. Who gives fifth chances? Idiots. I sat in the back of the car remembering the time I got a message from a girl telling me that my boyfriend had invited her over to his apartment. She intended to go until she found out that he had a girlfriend. Most high functioning adults don't give another chance to a person trying to cheat on them. But I did. Even when he would take his phone to the bathroom with him and sneak around texting in dark corners and shit. Everyone knows how ended.

Same story with the guys who followed: One stayed out all night long and would come home either obnoxiously fucked up or in tears. Another kept insisting that he didn't have to do thoughtful and nice things for me after we were exclusively dating. Then my most recent boyfriend, who I was madly in love with, just couldn't - or wouldn't - do what I needed. I was crystal clear with what I need to feel fulfilled in the relationship. I directly communicated this with hi; and he chose not to do it. Then we got back together, and he still didn't do it. Then we got back together again, and he still didn't do it. It sucked so much and was so sad that even my stepdad noticed and told my mom that I give guys way to many chances.

"Why do you do that, Emma?" asked my brother over the weekend.

"I guess I really want my efforts to make it work," I said softly.

"But one person can't work something out," he said.

"I know. And he isn't even right for me anyway. He's a Republican, god help me. Still, I would do it again."

"Something is wrong with you," he said.

"Something is wrong with me," I agreed.

Now I want to be extra cautious, but I don't know what I'm looking for. If a guy makes me dinner and doesn't give me an actual glass of water but a plastic sport top water bottle, do I not give him another chance to make me dinner? I mean, the water in that bottle could have been old. Or maybe I need new dealbreaker list that I actually stick to. I might need actual therapy on my own self-worth. Unless someone is literally abusive, it's hard to know when to throw in the towel and when to give it another go.

"Fine. Relationships are an art. But first he broke up with you over the phone. Then he ordered you to stop dancing. Then he gave you a cookbook, Emma," demanded my coworker yesterday afternoon. And it dawned on me, that while all of those things hurt me, eventually, the only person truly at fault is the one giving so many damn chances.

Emma Dinzebach

Normally I can pick out like five things semi-significantly to significantly wrong with any given guy I go out with within the first two minutes. It's a talent. Recently, I had been out with this possibly great/possibly just normal guy twice and literally could not find a single thing wrong with him. The two things I initially picked out on date one were both proven wrong by date two. I was convinced that I must be break-up delusional, which can occur either when no one appears as good as your recent or ex or everyone appears better than your recent ex, with me being stuck in the latter. Likely I was being overly forgiving because I knew that underneath his clothes were very nice abs and sooner or later, I was going to need to touch them.

I'm only human. 

Admittedly, I intended to approach our second date with more discernment. When I walked into the restaurant to meet him, he was smiling and happy. Other women around the bar were looking over. Were they looking at him. Or were they looking at me? Normally, my animal print faux cheetah and dark eyes attract stares, but this time, I am pretty sure he was drawing the audience. I shifted my weight evenly to both feet to stand up straighter and pulled my shoulders slightly back. When he turned for a minute, I took a deep breath.


I studied social psychology. I know that both the more wealthy party and more attractive party, respectively, has more power. So until I'm the more wealthy, which is inevitable, I must be the more attractive party. Thus, I date guys who are, by social standards, at least slightly less attractive than myself.

I'm not an idiot.

When we sat down to eat, I couldn't stop staring at him both because he's hot and because I was certain there must something significantly wrong with him - lingering maladaptive childhood coping mechanisms or eventually wants to move the suburbs or a Republican. Maybe he hates music. Maybe he's not quirky enough for me. Whatever it was I didn't want to waste ten dates or ten weeks trying to figure it out. I don't have the time. I have a book to (re)write. Still every time I started assessing, I caught myself staring at him like a total fool - complimenting him and being all nice. I meant to interject sarcasm or at least cast a shadow of a doubt, but instead I just smiled cutely as he told animated stories and listened intentionally to me talk about work. He said he liked when I talk about work. (See also: #shitjesussays.) I had no choice but to be happy. In all the gross happiness, I forgot to find something significantly wrong. What the hell is going on here? I wondered.

"There is nothing going on, Emma," said my friend. "Most people think that's a good thing when they can't find an immediate red flag flaw with a dude. You're the only person that thinks his normalcy is at all related to your need to be comfortable spazzing out in a nail salon. You're on acid."

I didn't hear her. "But he wore acceptable footwear," I began, "And his fingernails didn't have any whites. He looks great in his jeans and his running clothes and his underwear. I need to lose five pounds. What am I going to do?" I screamed into the phone in the car en route home. The driver flashed me a concerned look through the rear-view mirror.

"Do nothing," she began, but her words weren't sinking in. My mind was trying to figure out how I was going to go out with a guy I couldn't find something significantly wrong with. I like maybe-major flaws, they make up for the fact that I'm a totally neurotic serial dater with a blabby blog. Or that I have a lot of ideas, few of which I actually follow through on. Or that I have a serious addiction to tortilla chips and salsa, which might be the cause of my endless need to lose five pounds. Without obvious flaws, I'm easily intimidated.

I cannot be intimidated.

Emma Dinzebach

Mid afternoon Valentine's Day, I stood in the doorway listening to McNary and staring at the people coming out of Whole Foods with flowers and wine and groceries full of ingredients for romantic dinners. My eyes filled with tears. Not because I was being a sad crybaby that I didn't get what I wanted on Valentine's Day, but because I realized that I never take my own advice. Everyone else had long given up on my happily-ever-after hopefulness before I finally reached the reality that a singing telegram was not coming, and more candidly, I was not going to ride off in the sunset. Why did it take me so long to get it?

I'm the queen of double standards. I make rule after rule then bend them when it suits me. I sleep with my ex-boyfreind when I tell people not too. I tell people not to eat bagels and cream cheese, then I come into work with a bagel and cream cheese. Light cream cheese, but still. (See also: hypocrite.) I insist on time integrity, then show up 30 minutes late. Maybe that's why I have so many dilemmas. If I saw a friend standing at the door of her store pathetically waiting for flowers, I would shake the shit out of her. I would scream, "Who the hell stares out a door waiting for flowers? Get a grip. A million people want to date you, and this guy is and continues to be a colossal waste of you and all of your friend's time and energy." I would insist  that circles don't fit into squares and perfectionism isn't impressive. It's idiotic. I should listen to my own advice, follow my own guidelines.


I turned and walked through the store and picked up my phone. For a few minutes I stared at a text message from a guy I had met the previous weekend under nearly naked circumstances but actually knew nothing about except that he has very nice abs. Until now, our communication had been friendly, but that morning he explained that while he had to work a lot in the upcoming week but would like to take me to dinner the following week. Replying yes before an actual break-up conversation is a blatant double standard; but at that point, my intuition was screaming that once and for all I needed to move forward. And my intuition has never actually steered me wrong. Not the time in college when a sketchy frat guy locked me in his room. Not the time I took two steps into the subway and turned back to get a cab. Not the time in Morocco when I had to decide, in three seconds, if I was in danger or not. And not the time I was offered an editorial position at a popular event website and choose to keep my job. (I love my job.) My gut knows pretty much everything always. So when it told me to prematurely to go ahead send the text message agreeing to go out with the guy, I listened.

And I wrote back, "That would be lovely."

Emma Dinzebach

Since I've been sending out parts of my book to friends and non-friends alike to read, I have  realized that someone is inevitably not going to like something. For whatever reason, dislike can and will take the form of a personal attack. (See previous blog post comments.) No one likes to get harsh feedback and especially dislike personal attacks, I have to be okay that it will happen. If I make compromises every time I write something that portrays me as snobby or bitchy or shallow or neurotic, I'm selling myself short because A) I'm not being authentic. Sometimes, I'm authentically bitchy. and B) I'm not painting a well-rounded picture of myself. Sure I meditate every morning so that I can breathe deeply at noon in line at sweetgreen. Still sometimes I freak out on the nail lady. 

Like yesterday for instance. I said, "You are not filing them correctly. I'm not happy with how you are filing them."

She said, "I cannot file them the way you want because they are too short."

I said, "Yes you can file them at this length and shorter."

She said, "No I can't."

I said, "Yes you can!"

She said, "No I can't."


At which point she handed me the nail file and said, "Do you want to do it?"

I did it because I was pissed and wanted it right. Me, sitting there filing my own nails in the nail salon. My deep breathing became huffing, and every ounce of mindful patience huffed out of me. I glared up at her. Realizing the horrible irony of doing the job that I am paying someone else to do while I'm paying them made me pissed.

"I can dooooo my own nails. If I wanted to do my own nails, I'd be sitting on my couch watching the fucking Kardashians. I wouldn't be here," I said rudely and dropped the nail file in front of her.

Now I already know the people at the nail salon don't like me. When I go there with my mom, they give me the best person not because I deserve it but because they don't want some poor new girl who can barely speak English to have to put up with my mani/pedi OCD. To be fair, I wasn't used to unskilled nail salon employees. We didn't have them in New York. Many times I can find patience; yesterday was not my finest hour. I realize that the energy I put out there - negative, condescending, rude - influenced the remainder of my manicure, which was atrocious and another lady had to come fix it.

For a a micro-second I felt badly. Then it passed, because every now and then I'm going to lose my temper because I'm quickly shrewd with high expectations. Throughout my week, I do many things to reign it in and tone it down so I can be present and solution-focused for myself, my friends, my employees. What I cannot compromise are my need for efficiency and vigilance. When the two don't match up, it can become a bit of a fire explosion. I can become a bit of a fire explosion. "Firecracker," my employee told me yesterday. Those are the times that make me me.

And what makes me so good in bed.

Emma Dinzebach

I woke up on Tuesday morning, Valentine's Day, put on Beyonce and added an extra coat of mascara. From the outside, I likely looked like a pretty, distracted girl with tight pants on, but on the inside, I was unconsciously preparing myself for the break-up, part toi. The third time's a charm, right?

My ex-boyfriend and I just couldn't get it right. I had repeatedly explained to him that ever since the traumatizing time I walked in on a boyfriend in bed with someone, I become on edge when I cannot get a hold of my boyfriend. It is part of post-traumatic stress. When I text or call and get no response for hours, my mind defaults to the worst-case scenario, which for me isn't a car wreck or subway mugging, but a dark-haired girl with a wide forehead sitting up in my then boyfriend's bed and saying, "Who are you?"

"Um, who the fuck are you, and why are you wearing my shirt?"

Sure, it was years ago and yes, there are stretches of time where I've been in solid relationships that triumph over the tragedy of that morning; but a couple twice-separated and giving it a third go-round is clearly trust-building. During said trust-building mode, I need to hear from you.

So when he went New York, and I didn't hear from him from the late afternoon until the next afternoon with a couple unanswered phone calls and ignored text messages, I did not like that. Not one little bit. And I'm sure he didn't like the intense, blaming person I became in my anxious state. Slightly passive aggressive. Very bratty. Yes, he has told me several times not to send him unkind text messages. But I have told him not to not respond. The chicken. The egg.

Monday night, this all came to head and he may have called my blog a "relationship killer," and told me to take it down, which he said was equal to me throwing away his cigarettes and telling him that smoking kills you and other people around you. Words were carelessly and mistakenly tossed around. To my credit, my meditation has been working wonders and I was significantly more collected and reasonable than probably any other opposite-sex argument I've had in my extensive dating history. I stayed calm. I reiterated that the phone was not a great medium for serious discussions. We agreed to talk tomorrow: Tuesday, February 14h.

Valentine's Day passed. I didn't get a "Happy Valentine's Day." No flowers. No chocolates. No singing telegram. When I spoke with him later, he had no dinner reservations. No plan. Nada. I put on my new sexy underwear set I had bought for the occasion and hoped for the best. I grabbed his present - a had a head-to-toe lululemon outfit for him with a surprise Saturday afternoon at the Trapeze School...and chocolates. Duh. And went to pick him from work, hoping for the best.

He never saw the new sexy underwear set.

By chance we ended up at one of our favorite restaurants and had a very honest conversation about what it is going to take to get our relationship on the right track. He was thoughtful and open. He looked very handsome. He kissed my hand and placed it on his neck. Other patrons saw us as an attractive couple, kissing and enjoying a beautiful Valentine's Day. I had on red pants.

Something was missing - the conversation, while full of love and strategy, danced around actual commitment; and when I pointed it out, he changed the subject. I led him back to the conversation at hand, the conversation we had agreed to have tonight. We talked about the foundation of our relationship and how to rebuild it, his job, happiness, all of that kind of stuff. We finished our dinner and hand-in-hand headed back to his apartment to exchange our gifts, but something lingered between us.

When we walked in the door, I didn't take my coat off. From the bench next to his bed, he pulled out a book lazily tied with a red bow that I recognized from a Christmas present he still had at the foot of his bed. He handed me the book - a cookbook of Brooklyn restaurants he had picked up for me in New York. Inside, the inscription was vague but pleasant. I sat there waiting for my Valentine's Day gift. He turned the page, and in my head I thought: Oh, the present is inside the book. Maybe it's tickets to a show. Maybe it's train tickets, and we are going to one of these restaurants. Maybe it's a picture of my present because he has been so busy at work and waited until the last minute. That will be okay. The page he turned to was blank save the recipe. "I thought you would like to cook this," he said.

I wanted to leave. The glaring disparity in our gift exchange was so dramatic that the air thickened, and I was short of breath. The only thing in the world I wanted to do was leave. I didn't want to sit there silent for five minutes while he read through the three-page card I had written him. I didn't want to watch him open his presents. I didn't want to hear him guess what we were going to do Saturday that would require athletic apparel. No, it wasn't rock-climbing. I looked at him sadly. Yes, he was almost there, but almost was not enough. 98% does not equal 100%. Alas, my fight or flight response urged me to leave immediately.

"I'm going to go now. I love you," I said and really hope my butt looked nice when I walked out the door.

Emma Dinzebach

Around the time of my most recent break up, I went on one fun but far from awe-inspiring date with a very attractive guy. Admittedly, he's hot. And admittedly, I'm in love with someone else. It doesn't matter if Ryan fucking Gosling told me it was his dying wish to take me out, I am totally unwooable when I'm in love. I just couldn't get myself into the hot guy no matter how hard I tried. (I didn't try very hard.) I'm not sure if he sensed this or he actually was not that into me (doubtful) but the courtship evolved into this annoying text-relationship. Textationship. You know what I mean. You just keep texting each other. "What are you doing tonight?" "How was your day?" "How was your dinner with your boss last night?" And you actually know quite a bit about the other person's daily doings, but it's totally moot because one or both of you never make a plan. You never actually see each other. Just text. 

I'm a total sucker for a man with a plan.

Weeks passed, and I didn't even care that I wasn't actually seeing this hot guy because, again, I'm head over heels for a man my blinded-by-love self thinks wildly trumps the hundreds of other guys I've dated. Well, a hundred. A few things: Had I not been focusing all of my attention on someone else, maybe textationship's lack of planning would have actually upset me enough to address it. OR Had I not been focusing all of my attention on someone else, I wouldn't have even tolerated this textationship's lack of planning and cut if off. Either way, I would never have let it remain stagnant as long as I did. So long that I ended up in this weird situation.

Normally, I would just never text the person back. But since we don't have a real relationship, I doubt a few ignored text messages would send the signal. I would eventually have to say something. "I would be in this situation either way," I explained to my friend Pookie a couple weeks ago when I was deciding what to do. "If I weren't totally emotionally unavailable, I would need to cut it off because he doesn't meet my unrealistically high standards of how much planning a guy must do and attention he must give. I mean, a man without a plan would never have made the cut."

"Regardless of the hypotheticals and your ridiculous dating double standards, I think you should just write, 'It seems like you have a really packed schedule, so I think for now it's better that we don't pursue this.' And leave it at that," she said.

"Better we don't pursue this?! That is so formal. I would rather just not text him back..."

But then I know what is going to happen.
-Friday night he'll be like "Hey, how was your week. What do you have on tap for this weekend?" & I won't reply.
-Saturday night he'll write, "Hey, going out tonight? I have some friends in town. We'll likely be out after dinner around 9:30 we should meet up." & I won't reply.
-Tuesday night he'll write, "How as the weekend? What is your week like?" & then what? Don't reply again.

I delayed the inevitable, and it panned out exactly as I predicted. Guys are such idiots sometimes. In the future, I intend to be much more forthcoming. "I'm sorry but I actually need to stop texting with you because I'm in love with my ex-boyfriend. But for your future dating life, you should know, worthwhile women fall for actual effort. Like to be taken out. Worthwhile woman like a man with a plan."

Then again, maybe he just wasn't that into me.

Emma Dinzebach

The sequel haunts me. What are the publishing gods going to expect of me after a book about dates? Exceptional dates. The poor sequel will forcibly be romantically-rooted. What if they want me to follow in Elizabeth Gilbert's path and write about love and commitment? I'll have to move out of Washington, D.C. because I might never get to the love part here considering I can't even make it out on a single date.  I'll have to move to New York or Paris or Rome where men actually work to try to take you out on a date. If I stay here, the sequel material might gag me.

No, not in that way.

Apparently via social networking and DC-blabbermouths and this bloody blog everyone knows I'm [technically] single. I talk about my "ex"-boyfriend and write too sexy Tweets. I can be found weekly flirtatiously batting my eyelashes in line at Whole Foods. I purposefully position myself, slightly bent over, on the StairMaster.  (The pants help.) Even people previously unsure - you know with the break-up, get back together, break-up, get back together, it does get confusing - have spotted me quietly whispering into the ears of random dudes at various bars a little too late on a school night. And the clued-in dudes have now taken it upon themselves to just ask me out at their leisure. One guy sent me a message that just read: Single?

See what I mean by gag.

I've been on this rant for the past five to fifteen days, so excuse me if I sound a bit callous. I'm curious though, who the hell do these guys think they are? The first time around, I either dated the absolute best men out there or they literally don't make them like that anymore. They used wit and charm to pique my interest then slowly and smoothly seduced me until I absolutely could not wait for them to ask me out. Then they impressed me. Took me on cool dates and fun restaurants; and when we had been out a few times, they invited me to the beach or to Brooklyn. The point is they made me want to go out with them because they had something to bring to the table, and they tempted me with just enough of that something.

Not. Anymore. Ladies. Now these guys just send me Facebook messages asking me out. They even ask me out on Twitter. I mean, seriously? That's alarming. It is a total buzzkill to get a Facebook message asking me out on a date. So presumptuous. So lazy. Where is the effort there? Do these guys really think I just go out with anyone who asks me? Um, no. Had I done that I would have a fucking anthology by now.

Do you see why I have to move? I have nothing to work with here.

Women like to feel special - like you aren't asking out everything with a vagina. And the women who are really a catch, want to make sure that you are actually worth their time. I have a lot going on and if I'm going to skip a night I could be editing my book (see also: pursuing goals) and go to sleep early so I can make my 6 a.m. yoga class, you better have some cool tricks up your sleeve. I want to see what differentiates you from the other ten dudes who asked me out this week. Wait five minutes before you spew your desperate shit all over me. Use your wit. Use your charm. Make me excited at the thought of going out with you, so I tell all my friends about it. Make it so I cannot wait for you to ask me out. Not too long that I'm on to the next one, but just long enough. Book-worthy dates manifest in curiosity, not cluelessness) combined with little built up tension.

I mean, I thought this all was obvious.

Emma Dinzebach

"Emma if the thought of meditating is giving you anxiety, there is something seriously wrong with you," declared my mother as I expressed my disdain for seated practice in anticipation of a Sunday afternoon quiet yoga and meditation workshop. I struggle with nearly every activity that involves rest - resting the mind or resting the body. Sleep is like my worst nightmare.

Still I am a person who believes in balance. A hectic workday ends with calming tea and a good book. Suffering is countered by mindfully choosing to do something we love.  The ups in our lives give way to the downs and over time, life balances. But balance requires mindfulness and intentionality, which I am quite horrible at. When I'm feeling forceful, fiery and feisty, rather than going on a five mile run or talking maniacally, I should purposefully take a bath (obviously, I detest baths), have a quiet night at home (no champagne, no dancefloors) or sit and just be (torture). I am utterly resistant to relaxing and calm activities. For me, they require much effort; but that which elicits resistance and requires great effort is often that which we need the most. What allows us to grow into balance.


Last night after our meditation workshop, I sat in bed realizing it wasn't that bad. I would likely benefit from meditation. Then and there, I committed to meditating everyday - even if just for five minutes. Thinking about a daily seated practice sparked my desire for a daily yoga practice, an idea I've been avoiding committing to for some time. I decided I wanted to really practice arm balances. And eat a diet free of any processed foods. And I want to make absolute certain stairmaster three times a week. And next week I'm going to go to Bikram yoga with my coworker. I will have weekly dates with at least one person I'm developing. I'm going to have a weekly date with my mom. Oh and take my dog on longer walks. I'm committed to working through my relationship by putting calm and peaceful energy towards it rather than freaking out about everything and speaking to only that. Yes, I'm going to be more present when people are talking to me and make eye contact and not look away or pick at my nails, which I am committed to keeping beautiful and making sure I make time for my bi-monthly nail appointments but that means I have to eat out at least one night less than I normally do so I'm committed to cooking more...

My eyes closed and my mind swirled with the many commitments I intend to make around self-improvement, healthful living and elevating my relationships with everyone right down to my dog. Exhausted from so much thinking, I fell asleep.

This morning I woke up naturally, and before I could remember what had happened last night, I folded my yoga mat in half and sat down to meditate. I set my alarm for seven minutes (stretch goal) and closed my eyes. Most of what I thought of had to do with the actual meditation, but just before the alarm went off, I thought "This is enough." Eventually, I will own my daily yoga practice. Always, I aspire to eat free of processed foods save the occasional tortilla chip binge. By packing my calendar every night of the week, my nails and dog and relationships get pushed to the wayside. I even rush through writing on my blog and editing my book. Inside me, is a huge opportunity to slow down.

But the journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. For now, short morning meditation is plenty and enough.

Emma Dinzebach

I don't really have a resolution, I said late Sunday afternoon in a round robin of 2012 do's and do not's. I mean, I resolute all year long, I said with a teeny tiny better-than-thou. Still on course to lose the remaining 2.5 of my 5 pounds, consciously aware of saying "yes" as opposed to "yeah," taking a few moments to switch into solution rather than complaining in the face of frustration and a religious sunscreen devotee, I'm a walking, talking advertisement for self-improvement. What else can I possibly improve?

Sure there are areas around my outer butt that, however loved and worshiped by my ex-boyfriend, I could once and for all tone to perfection. And I could resolve not to wear black stretchy pants on my days off. I could organize my financial goals with a bit more structure... But I'm a creative purchaser. Without some impulsivity, I'm robbing myself of the simple joy of being me. None of these areas are even forgotten about enough to constitute an actual resolution. Still, I believe in New Year's resolutions. I believe that we are constantly reinventing ourselves, reinspiring ourselves, and revamping the methods by which we achieve our goals.

Now it's a week into 2012, and I have yet to declare my intention. My mom is calling her resolutions "intentions." She is practicing being light and free or something like that. She encouraged me to practice being light and free. I'm always burning the candle at both ends, she says. But light and free sounds horrible to me. I mean, what would anyone write about, create, report if the world was all light and free. Light and free will not be me. So who will I be in the new year? Who will I be to other people?

Or who will I be for other people?

After a few minutes of rare intentional thinking, I decided that in 2012, I will be an all-around better person for other people. I do enough self-absorbed self-analysis - recounting my relationships, detailing my dates, agonizing over the eggs in all my different baskets - that sometimes I forget to take my head out of the sand. Rather than focusing my resolution on my eternal quest to improve moi, this year might I focus on who I can be for everyone else in their journeys? I have the potential to be an instrument of motivation to A. LOT. of people. My strengths lie in winning others over, creating ideas and motivating to action.  My assistant manager recently reminded me that we should use strengths rather than endlessly obsessing over our areas of opportunity. Because our strengths we actually already possess. Duh.

Alas, Resolution 2012: I intend to check in with my friends and family. Actually support them. Use my strengths to motivate and help them achieve their goals. And boost their spirits by letting them know that yes, I realize there are other people on the planet besides 5'3 me, and I appreciate them. Immensely.

Emma Dinzebach

I didn't really get the whole white girl problem joke until today in Whole Foods. Obviously. My ex-boyfriend had part of my Christmas present to give me and I had things I bought for him. Mid-afternoon, he called and said he was in Whole Foods across from my store and asked if I wanted to come over there to swap. I said yes.

Scene:

Me - overpriced rain boots, overpriced rain jacket, very neat hair and eyebrows. Him - trendy glasses, iPod in (which was a odd), designer shoes, jacketless but scarved. Me - rushing in with a bag full of $25 boxers and a hundred dollar hoodie for him. Him - brown paper package tied with a floppy red bow. inside - a sleeve for the iPad he gave me for Christmas. Me - flustered and rushed, stupidly offer to walk him through the produce section. Him - inquires about ingredients in chili, which he intends to make before he goes out of town. Me - hook, line and sinker - where are you going? Him - Tahoe. Me - quiet beside him as we pass the seafood department but glad I'm no longer dating someone averse to seafood and free to cook deep sea culinary delights. Him - straight past seafood to the local, grass-fed meats. Me - suddenly teary. Him - genuinely concerned. Me - I have to go now. (I actually did have to go to back to work.) Him - how much do I owe you? Me - eighty five dollars. Him - I only have hundred dollar bills.

Okay, so this part could have also been a drug dealer problem.

We then tried two different cashiers to break a hundred dollar bill, none of whom had the change. I got huffy and frustrated that these people can't break a hundred dollar bill. What kind of Whole Foods is this? This would never happen that the Georgetown Whole Foods. Several people excused themselves past us in search of Pellegrino, and I became increasingly uncomfortable. He gently urged me to relax, and not knowing what else to do, I again said I had to go. He asked if I want to open my present. No, I didn't want to open my present next to organic all-purpose cleaner. As I declined, I fiddled my umbrella and suddenly my golf-sized umbrella burst opened in the middle of Whole Foods. Oops. My face burned. With his eyes on me, I struggled to quickly close it. He understood about the present but insisted on peaking into the bag containing his luxg lounge clothes, and I said: Just don't wear those two things together. Ever.

As if that was the main concern.



Then suddenly, without thought or preparation, I again said I had to leave and walked out the door without looking back. Normally, I always look back. I like a good melodramatic ending scene, but this time I couldn't bring myself to act it out. I couldn't even muster a "I hope you live into your possibility." And I love that line. All I could do was re-open my umbrella with purpose and without looking both ways, dash across the street. A car shrieked to a halt. The driver shook his head.

Thankfully, I didn't die. I don't want to die like that - near tears, clenching a hundred dollar bill. And I certainly don't want to die wearing rain boots. Because my main concern about death is what I'll be wearing.

Inside my concerned assistant manager asked me how it went. Whatever. I just wanted it to disappear and for a moment felt as bleak as the weather outside. I sat down at my office and complained for a solid ten minutes before I was called outside to monitor a photo shoot for our weekly product notification. When I went back outside, it wasn't raining anymore. It was like an entirely different day. The sky was clear and to the right was a giant, picturesque rainbow.

Get the rainbow in the picture, I said.

Emma Dinzebach

It's only fitting that the day the national turkey was pardoned and the supercommittee again failed to offer us anything close to super, I found political fervor in everyone's favorite holiday sentiment: gratitude.

The absolute bane of my human existence is not actually flocks of pigeons but unsupportive parents. Having four for-the-most-part very supportive parents to whom I am eternally thankful, I absolutely cannot relate to and hardly tolerate inhibiting, dream-squashing parents. I become livid and often quite mouthy. (You're shocked. I know.)

Such was the case listening to my friend and her father discuss her career path over a beer (me champagne) last week. There for moral support disguised, I intended to say very little. As she vibrantly talked about her goals and plans to achieve said goals, I smiled and inserted little encouragements. But every time she took a breathe, her father interjected with a comment like:

"I see your excited, but excitement doesn't pay the bills." AND "Now, you don't talk about this at [her current job] do you? You wouldn't want to lose your job." AND "Maybe if you were nicer to you boss, your boss would be receptive..." AND They got so much worse, I'm embarrassed to even write them.

I get that parents are worried about their children. With unemployment at 9% and something like 16% percent for people under 25, we can be blinded by fear. But when in the history of parenting has worry-based expression ever helped anything? (Except last night when my mom may or may not have saved me from being electrocuted because she was worried shouldn't attempt to unstick the lightbulb with pliers without turning off the electricity.) What happens is that the child (no longer a child) walks away feeling frustrated, unsupported and unvalidated. They abadon their dreams, wake up 35, baby on the way and trapped in their lives. So, they take antidepressants. But they gain weight. Then ten years later, they repeat said cycle on their children - squashing dreams like cockroaches. Resentment builds at at 57, they have a heart attack. Or at 67 they have diabetes. And honestly, that's costing our country a lot of money.

Dream squashers cost the country money. I am sticking to that.

My friend's father continued down this ugly path, and my passion grew. I tried to reign it in. I did. At one point he said something about the economy and the president, and we can all guess how that landed. Roughly. Quite roughly. Maybe I shouldn't have, but I said:

Me: You're a Republican, right?
 
Him: Yes.

Me: So you inherently value personal responsiblity and the freedom of personal choice.

Him: Yes.

Me: And you uphold our constitutional right to the pusuit of happiness.

Him: I uphold all of our constitutional rights.

Me: Right. Our country's founders did so without wealth, networking or social status. From nothing, they contrived our constitutional rights. You of all people then must be a huge proponent of the American Dream.

Him: I am.

Me: So denying someone the right to pursue happiness, in whatever form that may take, is essentially unpatriotic. It's un-American to squash people's dreams.

He looked grumpy. My friend looked scared. I anticipated he would say something about no one being happy waiting in the unemployment office. People who cannot feed their kids because they spent their lives trying to be Mick Jagger don't end up happy. But I wasn't finished. I rarely get a soapbox, and I intended to use it.

Me: There are only two things needed to fulfill your dreams. The first is the absolutely essential inner component of all dream fulfilling. The second helps you achieve your goals faster and more efficiently. The first, verified by thousands of psychological studies and resides in varying levels of human nature, is intrinsic motivation. The second is strategy. Obviously.

Him: Obviously.

Me: So discouraging your daughter from fulfilling her dreams when she clearly has both of the main components of dream-fulfilling - an above average level of intrinsic motivation and intentional strategy, is both  unpatriotic, un-American and the antithesis of fundamental ideals our country was built on.

Remember, dream squashers cost $$$.

He cocked his head slightly and looked at me, unsure how to respond. I saw his rebuttal forming, and for a moment worried that maybe I didn't know at all what I was talking about. Except for intrinsic motivation; that's real. Intrinsic motivation drives single mother's to send children to college. It allows two college kids to take a chance on a chopped salad shop, and my dad to abandon his business for two months to rebuild houses in tornado-torn Joplin, Missouri. Intrinsic motivation keeps my brother at the studio for hours after an 8-hour workday. It pushes us to get back up when we fall. It's that thing inside of you that keeps you going. That you can't name. That picks you back up when the first, second, and third time you go for your dreams you fall short. I was armed with this ammo, but he changed the subject. Wimp.

"Many of life's failures are people who did not realize how close they were to success when they gave up." -Thomas Edison

Later, and in the most inspiring way I could, I told my friend that sometimes parents let worry and doubt drive their interactions with their children. Unfortunately, all that does is place worry and doubt onto the kid. No one needs more worry and doubt. But that's hard to see when you're in the weeds. Then I reminded her that it's two days before Thanksgiving, and she should be grateful she lives in a country (and has a father!) that values personal choice. But with choice comes responsibility.

Choose choice responsibly.

Emma Dinzebach

So I have this friend who, when she was broken up with her boyfriend, accomplished so many things. Really remarkable things. Honestly, the stuff dreams are made of. Then she got a new boyfriend, and out the window went all of the stuff dreams are made of and in came lots of cuddling up to movies but very few subsequent accomplishments.

Upon hearing my boyfriend and I reunited, she heeded: "Emma, do not stop writing. I repeat, do not stop writing. Don't let snuggling get in the way of fulfilling your absolute highest human potential!"

Had she given up? Was she placing all of her unfulfilled human potential into my empty vat? How would I ever fulfill all of this potential? How would I ever fulfill it and still snuggle? Although she had a point - even before children, we can become so wrapped up in the affection of another that we quietly neglect our hopes and dreams.

Sometime yesterday I thought about a fitted tweed jacket with black leather lapels. Maybe holiday tweed with a hint of red. When worn with a dressed down ensemble, the jacket dressed it up and when worn dressed up, it dressed an ensemble down. The back had a very thin line of leather separating the two halves and stopping just before the waistline where it kicked out a little bit like a riding jacket. For hours I scoured the internet looking for this jacket just to find that the jacket, apparently, does not exist. Thus, confirming my age-old suspicion that I should have indeed been a fashion designer. Sigh.

How will a self-proclaimed snuggle addict, with heaps of unfulfilled potential and so many regular-person things to do, arrive at the peak of my potential whilst sharing my world with someone else? I wondered. How do I find the time? But I've been to Landmark; I know "time" is not an excuse. There are people with full-time jobs, three children, ballet lessons, mother with early-onset Alzheimer's, sick cat, oil changes and running a company and producing a documentary film and exercising daily, that do it everyday. Sure those people have assistants and such, but even so they accomplish a lot.

How?

Nope, not multitasking. (Most studies say it actually takes us longer to do do things when we do multiple things at a time.) The key is efficient-tasking. See also: maximum prioritization.

I consider myself an efficiency expert; but sometimes in a snuggle-ridden relationship, I become less efficient and less productive. Mainly because I'm addicted to snuggling. It's very hard to snuggle and do other things. (Siri has indeed helped.) Thus, I have decided the only to way to write on my blog weekly, complete my re-writes and edits, practice yoga, run, walk my dog, hang out with friends, work!, maintain a glowing complexion and snuggle is detailed prioritization, and when possible, killing several birds with a single stone. Which is fabulous, because I hate birds.

So last night, I painted my nails while watching a movie with my boyfriend. (Baby steps people, baby steps.) Little did my boyfriend know that my nail-painting was symbolic of ways to come. No more disorganized, lazy Sunday afternoons. No more skipping yoga. My friend recently ran the Marine Corps Marathon and said one of the hardest parts of training was forcing herself to stay in so she could do her longest weekend runs. There are times that I need to stay in, say "no", get my hot ass home early because I am most productive when I am well-rested and have worked out. Those two essentials are incompatible to staying out until all hours the night, however fun that might be. All of the dancefloors in the world will be ready and waiting for me when I have accomplished my goals.

And then, get up early, which can be hard when you have a snuggle addiction. However, like the dancefloor, all of the snugs in the world will still be there when I have accomplished my goals. If I am committed to some serious prioritization, then I wake up. No excuses. No cutesie stuff. Up. Up. Up. Nothing is done by laying around thinking about it. Everything is done by strategic action.

When I look back on my life, am I going to wish I had fulfilled my artistic potential or stayed in bed longer? As tempting as those snugs might be, no one wishes they slept more. Not. One. Person.

Emma Dinzebach

After the one (miserable) date I went on when I was broken up with my boyfriend, I received a text message from the guy saying "I inadvertently stumbled upon your dilemma." See also: Google stalked you. Not one to encourage potential suitors to read through the cumbersome medley of my many thoughts, I sort of laughed off the text message. Three hours later, I received a slew of angry texts expressing astonishment, horror, and consternation.

"Good luck with the alienating, judgmental, self-absorbed, insecure Dilemma and your myriad of dates with so many unworthy, horrible, idiotic men..."

And that went on for 45 more iPhone lines during which he made a million assessments about me, only two of which were correct: He suspected that I was judging his footwear during our lunch date, which I was. He suspected he wasn't funny enough; and he wasn't even funny at all. Every single thing I have ever written he took personally and internalized, spinning himself into a frantic, crazed state. I felt quite frightened actually, then intrigued that such a strong effect can arise form something I thought so trivial. I'm not sure why it took me so long, but only then did I think that maybe I underestimate the power of my verbosity.

Maybe all of those times that my boyfriend was a little uncomfortable with something I had written weren't a reflection of his lack of support for my artistic outlet but were actually, if slightly, warranted. Perhaps I was artistically repressing myself by insisting that the topic relate to him? However, I truly enjoy writing about relationships and dating. It's funny. If I write about life lessons all the time people will be tired of me. Plus, what if something pertains to him? What if I am writing about a situation and he was there, do I not even mention that? Do I not even mention that I have a boyfriend? The line is both fuzzy and fine and the slope is ever-so-slippery.

Without a boy, what the hell will I write about?

Well, technically, I have plenty of boys yielding years of fodder to trifle to perfection. There are [too] maaaaaaany dates, dudes, duds and such to write until my heart bleeds. Most of whom have absolutely no say in how or what I write. Most of them don't even care. So if a single man wishes to be excluded for the sake of our relationship - because he loves me - I can agree without carrying on about my artistic repression. Especially because, when getting back together, there is just one rule:


Commit to one thing each. His means I veer my public displays of affection away from the internet, sticking to hand-holding and such. Maybe yours is that your boyfriend doesn't email from bed, and his is that you don't get mad when he gets drunk watching football. Yours might be making more time for your friends. His might be spending more quality time together. Whatever. It doesn't matter how complex or how simplistic, make every decision come back to that one thing until you are solid and strong and have a bag full of successes all related to that one thing. Then and only then, can you can choose something different. One thing at a time.

Obviously, I'm having trouble narrowing my things down to one....

Emma Dinzebach

Had I just let what was over actually be over six weeks ago, I could have already emerged from this effing break-up and be dancing, all sweaty, with guys with six pack abs. But instead, I tortured myself refusing to believe that the totally amazing man I am so in love with could not feel the same about me. How can he not see what is possible in our relationship? Why isn't he psyched to live that possibility? My brain cannot understand this. 

I mean, it's me! I am positive. I have style. I am dance floors and dance offs and champagne dance parties around the world. Plus, I'm passionate. I give amazing gifts. Despite my constant need to lose five pounds, I am genetically blessed in that I will never be overweight. Most of the time, I am funny. Always, I am imaginative. I am a great cook. I am mind-blowing in bed.

"Do you think I won't be a good mother?" I asked him.

"What?! No, I think you'll be a great mother," he replied.

While I've had many break ups, I've never broken up with someone when I was still in love with and fully committed to that person. During my previous break-ups, the relationship. was. over. We tried, we learned, and ultimately, we separated feeling aligned on our decision. Post break-up, I followed a strict set of rules that allowed for maximum healing. Break-up processes, while sad, were clean cut. As a result, I was able to stay friendly with my exes. Not this time. 

This time, I did not follow said rules and created a state of misery, which I do not wish on anyone. We stayed so friendly that many days it didn't even feel like we actually broke up. It was sticky, horrible mess that began and ended with me talking incessantly. (Shocking.) Self-defeat piled on self-defeat. Repeat yielded insanity. I said a million concepts and argued a million things. Eventually, he was tired of hearing me talk. I felt like a crazy, shit-covered parrot. And I hate birds.

I always need to lose five pounds. Always. If I lose five pounds, I need to lose five more. If I gain two pounds, I still need to lose five. It doesn't have to make sense to you people; it makes sense to me. Five pounds less, I will be happier, healthier, more fun, more sexy and a much faster runner. Five pounds less, my yoga practice will soar, my dating circle expand and my ass will look amazing. Five pounds less, I will be a free woman. Free at last.

Any evidence to the contrary, I toss aside. So it doesn't matter that I actually dated the most guys when I was nearly seven pounds heavier. It does not matter that I ran my fastest half-marathon and completed my only triathlon with a little more cushin for the pushin. Sure I can think of times that I was blissfully happy with five pounds more of me, and during those times, I still needed to lose five pounds.

Any and all evidence even remotely in support of losing five pounds, I manipulate and internalize so that it fits into the schema I've created about myself. How is this working out for me, you wonder? Well... Last week I walked into my ex-boyfriend's room. In the dark, I saw the trunk where I formerly kept my belongs was filled. It looked like he was storing his linens there. I stood perfectly still. He has replaced me, I thought. It is like I was never even here. My trunk is occupied. His entire life is occupied with things other than me. I am a complete idiot for even being here. I certainly didn't need to eat out again, and I definitely didn't need gelato. Fucking gelato. I need to lose five pounds. If I lost five pounds, I would not be bearing this repeated rejection. I started to cry.

Witnessing me unraveling, he kindly masked his annoyance and told me that it was his clean, unfolded laundry that he just put there to fold.

"Oh," I said. "Like a laundry basket?" I wiped my eyes, touched my stomach, reminded myself to do extra crunches at the gym tomorrow.

"Yes. So get that story you created out of your head."


I attached heaps of meaning to the trunk being full - that he doesn't want me in his life and has occupied it with tons of things to indicate that, that he doesn't want my things there anymore, of course, he doesn't love me. Then I crazily tied it back to my story that I need to lose five pounds. If I lose five pounds, I will be great. If I am great, no one will break up with me. People don't break up with people who are great.

The next day, I ran on the treadmill thinking about those five pounds and what they really mean to me. Five pounds are not hard to lose, especially for a borderline nutrition expert who works for an athletic company. I am purposely not losing the five pounds. Why was I holding onto five pounds?

Why do we hold onto anything? Because we are actually scared of who we would be sans excuses. Um, ourselves. If I lost the five pounds, how would I explain failure and rejection? How would I rationalize drinking wine as my coping mechanism? What would be my excuse? I would have to stop being so hard on myself. Worst of all, I would actually have to be. Without a future motivator rooted so deep within me, I would be forced to realize that my body actually isn't screaming for anything. My body is rested, strong, and fine. The five pounds live in my mind, and I am afraid to be in there without them. I'm afraid to just be me. Being me scares the shit out of me. I am A LOT. My deepest fear actually is that I am powerful beyond measure.

And so, to avert my power, I need to lose five pounds.


Emma Dinzebach

There are not many things in life that a glass of champagne can't cure. I mean, it can't cure tuberculosis, and I wouldn't try it for alcoholism; but a bit of bubbly can sure take the edge off of life's trying times. If I had a genie, I would ask for champagne on command. Then when I saw someone in tears on the metro or a guest bought her first pair of groove pants, I'd pop open champagne. Sadness lifted by bubbles. Spontaneous celebrations galore. Why, we would dance so much more. And be skinny!

Because you know, champagne helps you lose weight.

I could have used a glass of champagne this morning after talking with Jayna's dad about the trial. I could have used a glass of champagne this afternoon when I pitied myself for having to go through a break-up and admitted that this is a shit horrible time. I desperately needed champagne when I opened my gmail and an ad at the top read "Catch Him and Keep Him: 9 Ugly Mistakes Women Make." I needed a damn near bottle of champagne this afternoon when the emotions of the morning, day, week all caught up with me, paralyzing me and rendering me utterly futile. More than anything I wanted to be with the person I love, in his arms. I wanted him to make me laugh with his reassuring words that neither my friends nor my family could provide to comfort me. I had no where to go with my feelings, no where to put them.

During our staff meeting, between tears, I cleared this with my team so I could be present and powerfully deliver our business updates. As we were leaving our meeting, a brilliant and insightful woman approached me and told me she was shocked that I thought I had no where to go with my feelings. Absolutely shocked.

"Why?"

"Because you are a writer, Emma. Just write."

Oh, right.

I am a writer. Not because I have this blog and a lot of people actually read it or because I'm writing a book. I'm not a writer because I wrote about restaurants and fashion, and I'm certainly not a writer because I used to write boring grants. I'm a writer because I always have somewhere to go with my thoughts and emotions. I'm a writer because my authentic self is best expressed in the written word.

Exhausted and ready for bed, I forced my butt down in front of the computer (a glass of champagne to my right) and started to put my thoughts into a place. There are too many to share and, I acknowledge that I've worn out my emotional welcome. Rather than bore everyone to death with my anxious ups and downs and tedious self-reflection, I want to say thank you. Knowing that someone actually reads this provides a purpose for my self-serving dumping ground. You all give me the space, I just have to write it down. For that, I am humbly appreciative.

Emma Dinzebach

Last Friday night.

To be as clear as possible, I approached the situation from the following state of mind: exhausted. Thursday night I got home from a long flight at 12:30 a.m. Then, love-inspired and District-struck (See: Price of (Im)patience - Part 1), I stayed up late detailing a poetic rendition of my nearly-year-long love story - a gift I planned to give my boyfriend on our anniversary. In almost a year, I had never written anything for him. Always intimidated because he is also a wonderful wordsmith, I wanted to get an early start so it was absolutely perfect. I was mentally drained from self-reflection. Combined with a full work day less nap and long run because I gained three pounds while I was away on vacation and was feeling utterly horrible about myself, I was totally and admittedly irritable.

Irritability + Propensity for Impatience = Ugly.

Recently, I promised my boyfriend that I would consciously work on the way I expressed myself when I was upset. Rather than send fiery text messages, I would intentionally and coolly express my emotions. In turn, he would respond with empathy and openness rather than just jumping to his side of the story. (I'm a stand for mutual empathy in a relationship. Non-negotiable.) After not seeing him all week, I thought he would jump at the first opportunity to see me. When he didn't want to see this play I had invited him to, I became upset. Naturally, I wanted him to want to see me ASAP even if it meant going to a play with my mom and aunt. I felt like he had no sense of urgency around seeing me! (Eh, hem: impatience.) Coupled with being annoyed at myself for agreeing to the play when I just got home, going without him made me so mad. Mad at myself. Mad at my boyfriend. Sleep deprived. Sex deprived. On empty. I called him. (No texts.)

I thought I explained my feelings clearly; but his empathic attempt was "I understand" followed by a defense on his part. Here is the communication breakdown. I need real empathy. Like, "Emma, I understand that you are exhausted and upset that we are not seeing each other right away. This is making you very irritable, and I'm reminding you to practice patience because I love you. I assure you that I cannot wait to take of your clothes and kiss you all over as soon as you are finished with that damn play." But I got, "I already told you I understand. You aren't understanding that I had a long week and don't want to go to play with your mom and aunt. It doesn't mean I don't want to see you."

Do you see the distinction?

Well I did not respond very patiently to his incapacity for empathy and certainly gave no empathy to him. I might have decided that he never sacrifices anything for me. If he doesn't want to do something, he is not going to just suck it up and do it for me. But I do that all the time for him... Which made him defensive and angry. Obviously. It was a slippery slope. He said I had been "attacking" him all day, and to be fair I did have a g-chat frustration over our shared calendar and not planning something for our anniversary. Together we became angry and frustrated, and neither of us handled these feelings graciously. Then he said, "I can't do this anymore. I want to break up with you."

Yes, you read that correctly.

Me: "What?"
Him: "I don't want to date you anymore."
Me: "What?"
Him: "I want to break up with you."
Me: "But we love each other. We are in love with each other. I never want to break up with you."
Him: "Well there are two people here. I am not happy."
Me: "You're just going to break up with me, right now.
Him: "I didn't want to have do this over the phone."

To reiterate, two days before my period, three days before my 29th birthday I stood on the balcony of the Kennedy Center about to see an utterly depressing play absolutely exhausted, sex-deprived, tired from hurriedly fitting work into half hour increments between self-exploration the prior week, borderline fat, and my boyfriend who I want to marry broke up with me.

FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.

"It's just a crime of passion."

"You guys love each other!"

"But you're so happy together?"

"He will come to his senses."

I knew he would not. He is a Scorpio, and you know how Scorpio's are when they make decisions. No matter the contradicting evidence, they stick to their guns. Later he claimed he had been thinking about this for a while and was giving me "a chance" all summer. I had no idea I was being monitored; and worse, I had been quite proud of my progression thus far. Most people succeed in changing in a healthy space. My state of mind was not all together healthy until early August. My friend and employee was killed in the Spring. I was promoted at a new store, and over half of the team quit. Week after week I received two weeks notices. Then my old store re-opened, and I dealt with loss and sadness that I was not going back to a team that I loved in a store where I first grew into a leader. On my very best behavior for my new team, I was admittedly more impatient with my boyfriend, family and friends. Being closest to him, he certainly received the brunt of my frustrations. Through my various stages of grief and adjustment, he was loving and kind. That is a lot to deal with for a couple who has been together seven months, and he did a beautiful job.

In retrospect, he handled everything so much better than I did.



That takes us to the beginning of July - right around the time we openly talked about staying together because we love each other and truly working on our communication. That is a short amount of time to change in light of a lot of shit in your life. Plus, I'm not the fastest changer. Never have been. I was the kid who learned everything the hard way. I have to push everything to the final, absolute limit before I learn.

This was the final limit. "We can talk tomorrow. I know you have some things at my apartment you need to come get," he said.

I don't remember the play. Just that I cried.

Emma Dinzebach

My friend Jayne once told me that normally she isn't usually a fan personal blogs as they are mainly self-serving; but she likes mine because it's self-deprecating and puts a deeper spin on commonplace thoughts. Mostly, I maintain that. However, the following is self-serving. I release my emotions though writing, and currently, I have a lot of emotions to release. Still, an anal-retentive glutton for chronology, I aim to release said emotions in a neat and tidy series - without hope or expectation, without sympathy or self-pity, and with unrestricted love and honesty.

A strange thing happened when I was landing in DCA Thursday night: I felt like I was home. At the sight of the capitol building, I felt happily at peace in a city where my heart is - close to my parents, my handsome boyfriend, my dance party pup, and my supportive friends. The tall structure I used to call "that monument" stoically shone in the hazy night, and for the first time I felt appreciative. Life is a surprising and beautiful thing when a high strung New Yorker can uncover deeper parts of herself in our Nation's stuffy capital. It's a magical process when the same woman can find peace in a place where peace is rarely lobbied for and mostly just pipe dream. Peace, for me, being a great running route where a flirty blue heron is always happy to see me, wonderful yoga studios, a tribe of inspiring coworkers and shopping with my mom at Bloomingdale's. Sure the service at District restaurants is shitty at best, but I survive through shared complaining and a little thing called patience.

Patience has never come easy to me like writing or shopping for shoes does. Patience is something I have to really work at and be reminded of over and over again. Just when I take one slow beautiful step in the direction of serenity, my flagrant impatience pushes me two paces back. But with awareness, I am consistently moving. As the airplane inched it's way towards the gate, rather than grabbing for my phone or fidgeting with my bag, I stared at the capitol building thinking about my boyfriend who was fast asleep very near there. How beautiful he is when he sleeps. How I wished to be in bed with him. How I couldn't wait to see him the next day.

My boyfriend was instrumental in aiding my patience as he is reasonable and mindful. He calmly and respectfully reminded me when I fell below the patience line and as a result, I started to catch myself earlier. I restrained my desire to scream out loud when he was  slowly folding his sweaters or yell from the rooftop in reckless abandon when he slept in and I was AWAKE. Rather, I just laid there staring at his peaceful rest until he woke.

I'm a bit of a creep.

This translated. In line at Whole Foods I was slowly but certainly more serene, using the opportunity to put a smile on someone's face or browse through Real Simple. At yoga, rather than Type A-ing my way through class, I actually breathed. Over the past few months, the most significant people in my life have started to feel more comfortable telling me when my short responses and snappy conclusions were coming from a place of impatience. My mom and my best friend encouraged me to keep my passion but let go of some control. My boyfriend created space for me. My team at work kept me accountable to my word.

While I could be patient with other people, I had (and by had I mean have) much difficulty being patient with myself. When I have an emotion, I need to fling it out into the universe at warp speed A.S.A.P. If I am angry, I must tell someone. If I am wildly excited and impassioned, the world needs to know. My Mediterranean personality means my emotions are heightened several degrees and they burn a hole inside of me if I don't release them.

But our weaknesses are also our strengths. This fiery impatience and constant sense of urgency is the reason I thrive in busy environments. It is why I can motivate a group of people and create efficient methods. It has attractive qualities that lend to success in leadership and the ability to quickly attain measurable results. People are inspired as they are immediately rewarded and praised for their hard work; and I move quickly past people's shortcomings. I can rebound from anything. I easily forgive. It. Is. Beautiful.

Except when it's not. During arguments this looks like a clear and dramatic display of my feelings. I expect the other person to see exactly what I mean and empathize with my side very quickly. Only then can I hear the rebuttal. This method is quite difficult as it requires a high level of self- awareness and being quickly in tune with one's emotions in any given situation. Coupled with the average Joe's humane defense mechanisms and man's natural incapacity for empathy, I end up wanting to blow my brains out and stomping very loudly. I'm 28.

My boyfriend was fully accepting of the duality of my patience. It was what he loved about me, and he aided me in elevating my patience. When I would spout off, he kindly brought me back to planet earth. Super slowly but certainly, I spouted off less often. Unfortunately, it was still too frequent for a man with consistent intentionality. I should have known that couldn't actually last because when my impatience is not beautifully motivating and inspiring, It. Is. Ugly.

As was the case last Friday night...

Emma Dinzebach

I made the wrong bus reservation home from New York. Wrong city, wrong date, wrong time, all wrong. Consequently, I had to wait standby for the next bus. Fine. I've been practicing being patient. Patient is me.

This poor man standing next to me was not a seasoned traveler. He had attempted to take the 7:30 a.m. bus, but waited on the wrong corner and missed it. I overheard him on the phone with the bus company explaining his situation. He hung up with the understanding that he could get on the 8:30 a.m. bus, the same bus I was waiting for, without a problem. We stood there waiting - me checking and rechecking my work email and him tapping his foot and looking down the street every ten seconds.

The man did not know that, when riding standby, queue order is most important. If only one open seat remains, the first person gets that seat. If there are two seats, the first two people get on. And so on. No one told him this. When the bus pulled up, I immediately found the driver and asked if I could ride standby. I was person number one in the queue, naturally.  I saw the man putting his luggage on the bus and thought to myself, "Do not put your luggage on unless you are guaranteed a seat sir." But I didn't say anything as I am newly in the business of minding my own business.  We waited. When it was time to board and the woman pointed to me and yelled, "SHE! IS! FIRST!" very loudly and rudely to the other standby-ers inquiring into the standby status.

"Actually, if I can have him go first," I said motioning to the poor man who had been there since 7:00 a.m., "He missed his earlier bus."

"YOU ARE FIRST!" she interrupted. "DO YOU WANT TO GET ON THE BUS?"

"Yes, but his bus was actually earlier..." I started.

"DO YOU WANT TO GET ON THE BUS?"

"Yes but he..."

"WHAT ARE YOU? HIS ATTORNEY? EITHER YOU ARE FIRST OR YOU DON'T GET ON THE BUS!" she said.

Oh my.

"Well thank you anyway," said the guy as the bus driver took a call on her cell phone. When she hung up, she announced that one was getting on the bus due to a booking error. One problem remained: the guy's luggage was on the bus.

"I TOLD YOU NOT TO PUT YOUR LUGGAGE ON THIS BUS! THIS IS NOT YOUR BUS! THIS IS NOT! YOUR! BUS!" she yelled, forcing the poor man to open the luggage door and take out everyone's luggage to get to his, which was stupidly placed in the back. Again, no one told him. At the sight of the massive luggage removal, the bus driver freaked out. I'm not sure what she told the people on the bus, but suddenly a herd of passengers rushed off the bus and yelling at the man and pushing their luggage back in. I've never seen anything like it. It was pure panic, but there was no emergency.

I backed away with my luggage and went back to our waiting place on the wall, next to the deli, with air-conditioner juice dripping all over us. There was nothing lux about this situation. So we waited. Waited. Waited. I made some work phone calls and freaked out about a little nothingness per usual and the 9:30 a.m. bus pulled up. At this point, one would think the man would have a better understanding of stand by. Not so much. Again, I asked the driver (dude this time) to ride standby. He told me to stand aside and that I was first. I see the guy in the distance looking at his luggage and stressing the fuck out to whomever he is speaking with on the phone. Probably the poor woman who works at the bus company. I grew concerned for this man, but then another, larger man tapped on my shoulder. He did not have exact change and to pay-to-ride you need exact change. He was wondering if we can pay together. Certainly we could pay together, but he was quite a few down in the queue and I'd have to  explain it to the bus driver. Again, the new bus driver said, "You are first. You can board the bus." The first man was now standing kind of by the line confused, scratching his head. I could not take it.

"Actually, he was first," I said pointing to the man.

"NO he wasn't!" interrupted the crotchety woman behind me.

"YES he was," I replied, looking back and glaring a the woman. "And mind your own business."

The new bus driver was much less concerned with rules than the 8:30 a.m. bus driver, so he let the unseasoned traveler go first and me second. When I approached the bus drive, I attempted to tell him about the payment situation.

"There is a guy a few back," I began.

"THAT IS NOT FAIR!" interrupted the woman behind me, literally craning her neck around me, eyes bugging out of her head.

"No," I attempted to clarify. "He doesn't need to cut the line I just wanted to..."

"NOT! FAIR!" and you know when people get that weird spit stuff in the corners of their mouth. I was about to vomit.

"But..."

"I don't think that's fair," said the bus driver siding with the woman. I hadn't even explained anything yet!

I gave up. Clearly this bus situation was every man for himself. Survival of the fittest. That dude without exact change was on his own. Don't say I didn't try.

I wish this were the end.

Quietly and calmly, I chose my seat and sat down to dial into my 9:30 a.m. call. Behind me, I heard a different equally grotesque old(er) woman.

"You are in my pers-on-al space," she said curtly to the passenger beside her. I peered behind me and saw that poor exact changeless-man sitting beside her. Now, to be fair to the woman, the guy was a bit bigger than the average Joe and would likely be in anyone's personal space.

Offended the man replied, "I am not in your space. This is my space. This is your space. How am I in your space?"

"You are, and you need to move over I can't have you crowding my seat whole trip."

"I'm not in your space."

"Yes you are."

"No I'm not."

Am I in hell? I turned around because at this point, I've lost all hope for humanity. "You all are being inappropriate and disturbing the rest of the passengers on the bus," I said shortly.

"Wu-hell!" began the woman, "I have a right to some solidarity," she said. I wondered if that is the correct choice of words. One would be quite foolish to choose a budget bus as an environment for solidarity. Even still, solidarity wasn't the right word.

"It's because of the color of my skin!" said the man. Oh for crying out loud. Here we go.

"It is not! Do you know who you are talking to?" says the woman.

"No,  I don't," says the man.

Rewind: I'm not in regular hell; I'm in hell for idiots.

So I turned back around, "Would you like to switch places with me?" I asked the woman.

She looked around like she didn't hear me properly. She appeared very confused, so I added, "You might be more comfortable up here."

"Yes, I think I will," she said. I closed my computer, put it back in my bag, and got up. She just sat there looking like a deer in headlights. She did not move.

"Well," I said, "gather your personal belongings." She snapped back to reality and gathered her belongings. I slid in next to the bigger man who did not have exact change, and dialed into my phone call three minutes late.

For the record, the man sat with this fly unzipped, smelled and was snoring loudly nearly the entire trip, which I decided was infinitely better than the woman complaining about the man, fly unzipped, smelling badly and snoring loudly the whole trip.

Oh, I left out the part about the crackhead woman chewing on her tongue who twice tried to get on the bus with a cigarette, but I think you get the picture just as well.

Emma Dinzebach

Thus far I've successfully restrained myself from venturing toward a cliched and overwrought comparison of New York City versus the beltway. What's even the point? As far as I'm concerned, it's a waste of time. Like comparing champagne and apple juice. San Tropez to Pensacola. Ninjasonik with Nickleback. Missionary versus Insatiable Appetite. Okay, so you might drink apple juice in Pensacola on your way to see Nickleback and have an ounce of fun doing so; but it's no champagne in St. Tropez. It's no Grand St. in Daylight. Not. Even. Close.

Recently though I brushed on this conversation with my New York-bred boss who said in regards to all the city-transplants in the District, "Can't you just say 'That was a really great time!' and leave it there?" My eyes filled with tears. Was I going to start crying over this? Why the extreme reaction? Maybe I left too soon. Maybe I am meant for late nights and fashion frenzy. Maybe I like being poor all the time. Rather poor than perpetually uninspired...

And like that, the comparison I vowed not to take turned into a slippery slope of this versus that-ness.

But I stopped myself midway through because I don't want my boyfriend to have to listen to this A-gain.

Plus all of my ratty contrasting doesn't really matter if you are a Vineyard Vines-loving ladies man with mediocre culinary taste. Say you don't care much for art and design  (these people do in fact exist, I just don't really know them), then D.C. is tolerable. If you like a solid bar-scene and thrive in a relatively small environment, welcome home my friend. Happy hours are like fucking manna from heaven. Excuse moi. I just cannot describe it without using my judgmental judging tone, and I'm committed to 3% less judging, which started at 20% less judging but I realized I needed some non-judging successes under my belt. Baby steps people. Baby steps.

All in all, comparing and judging are getting me no where. Still, every single weekend I complain that D.C. taxis are the bane of my existence. That I cannot get a good bagel. That my essential self is screaming to dance. I cannot help but harp about how much better it is in New York City, and we are sick of hearing it. We are.

Maybe if I could actually preserve the memories of "a really good time" in a special place inside my heart, I could peacefully and fully move forward. After all, comparing is a bit like living in the past. So in addition to inhibiting my efforts to judge less, these nasty comparisons are toxic to the present moment.

In the end of the bloody day, I have two important things in Washington, D.C. that I never had in New York City: a job that I absolutely love and a sexy boyfriend who in addition to fulfilling my International Kissing Day desires actually makes me a more grounded, more patient, and more tolerant version of myself. So one could potentially argue that our nation's capital has been quite good for me.

And yet, it kills me to admit that. Absolutely kills me.

Emma Dinzebach

Photo via Get @ Me.

Without getting too personal or exposing or whatever, I had an issue with my boyfriend recently where I was forced to accept the unknown. And even though that's not really my jam, like whatsoever, I thought I could successfully practice the ancient art of letting go.

I failed miserably.  For me, solutions come from fully understanding problems. I want to get to the bottom of things. That's why my degree is in psychodynamic psychotherapy: I believe that understanding the "why" and more importantly the "how it got that way" is essential to acceptance and solvation. (That's not a real word. I just made it up. It means the "action" of solving something. It's the noun of "to solve.") Anyway, I can't really get into it as said bf and I have an ongoing disagreement about my tendency toward vomiting my feelers on a public forum. To my credit, I've been much more restrained than I used to back in the glory days. My ability to fully detail a given issue at hand has been unfortunately but successfully curbed by love. Fucking love. Love is simultaneously blissful and restrictive. Or am I choosing be live restricted? Having yet to reach the root of my restriction, I stepped back.

I've always been a bit of a spitfire, firecracker, a rule-breaker (yep, bonafide badass) - a light fighter of sorts but with a self-destructive ability to forgive and forget. I have strong convictions. This I know. This I hold. For my convictions, I find release in letting the extreme versions flow unfiltered. It allows me to be level-headed and convenient in everyday life. However, the whole cautious approach to my blog I've relationship-adopted over the past six or so month seals my outlet. And is so blah boring.

I detest boredom.

While there are many things I compromise because I love the people closest to me in my life (and wouldn't dream to throw them under the dirty blog bus just because I feel the need to express myself ad nauseum), I cannot compromise stimulation via theatrics en scripto. Not going to do that. Nope. Not never. I am however, going to go ahead and change a few things on my blog. Moving forward, you will find these chronicles scattered with:

• Histrionic complaints at my leisure. 
  
• Dirt...because if you can't get dirty on the internet, where can you?
  
• A dash more sex. I mean, what's the point in being "the sexy one" if you never mention getting it on.
• Reality. Sure, I'm learning lessons all the time; but if I were in the business of preaching, I'd have been born Jesus Christ. Or Jesse Jackson.
  

Plus, this godawful blog is in fact written by a still-technically-single young woman (and amazing dancer to boot) navigating a challenging career and growing a relationship in a city void decent DJs, where people dress like assholes and literally don't follow the proper bagel-making processes. (Thanks for that Cozzi.) Even my dog looks at me like "Can we go home now?" Every day is beauty and every day is a bit of a struggle. A struggle to be 20% less judgmental. A struggle to walk more slowly. A struggle to tolerate inefficiency. A struggle to, at the end of the day, recenter and remind myself that a life characterized by restrictive struggles is no way for a hot girl and a footloose Turkey to get down.

Yet we are here, and here is where we choose to be. So rather than come to terms with the struggle - because that's a big bore - I'm committing to releasing said restriction. Wrecklessly. Intentionally. And write (sic) here for your viewing pleasure.

Emma Dinzebach

Jacob Love via www.ashadedviewonfashion.com

Admittedly, I have swayed from my commitment to write every week. I'm not even going to use the fact that life has thrown some weird shit my way in the past few months as an excuse. I cannot use the death of my writing accountability steward as an excuse as my new writing accountability steward is wonderful, on point and consistent. Lack of content is the worst scapegoat as I can always write about that I don't know what to write about it. I mean, it's not that entertaining; but everyone knows that it doesn't matter what song gets you on the dance floor, it's how you shake it once you're out there.

Even my employees and close friends have been consistently asking me, "Are you writing?"

Me: "No." (I've outgrown trying to lie about this.)

Someone: "Why?"

Me: "Because I haven't been making time for it."

Someone: "Oh. Why haven't you been making time for it?"

Me: "I guess unconsciously I want to live an insignificant and mediocre life."

Someone: "That's weird Emma."

It is totally "weird" - my failure to devote time attention to something I intrinsically enjoy doing. Frankly, avoidance is self-destructive. If most people sabotage themselves through action, I sabotage myself through inaction. Which sucks because I am the sole activator when it comes to my writing. I mean, duh. If I want significant results, I am personally responsible for making them happen. And if I cannot do that with something so inherent to my being, how will I feel fulfilled in the rest of my life.

In order to be my authentic self and rise above mediocrity, I have to fill myself with time with authentic expression - in my case, writing. If I'm failing to carve out time to nurture said authentic self, then what the hell is the point? Like, of life? For me, repressed creativity is detrimental to being fully functioning causing built up possibility sans outlet. Just me, 5'3, going to work, to yoga, to dinner and paddle boarding and theater and concerts and NYC and blah, blah, blah. All the while not feeling like I am doing anything for myself and I'm just a boring, average Josephine. It's like when you really want a chocolatey dessert so you eat fruit, then sorbet, then some craisins, then cereal, but nothing satisfies you because you really want dessert dessert. So finally you give yourself the chocolate when you should have just done so in the first place and could have saved yourself 300 calories.

It's. Just. Like. That.

So here I am, week after week filling up on dried fruit and fucking bananas, wishing I had something sweet to eat. I have my Master's Degree in human behavior. My mother is a Life Coach. I work at the most self-aware-centric company in the history of the world. I have no excuse for this. There is not a soul to to blame but my damn self. It's not my lack of time, inspiration, content, encouragement from others or anything else. C'est moi.

Okay, so I am personally responsible. Now I'm trying to remember if admittance is a catalyst to change...
or maybe I need to hire my mother.

Emma Dinzebach


Photo via Christopher Gindlesperger

Looking back, I really need therapy when I broke up with my boyfriend of a year and a half after he cheated on me... the second time. But I didn't go to therapy. I sort of wish someone would have encouraged me more. Although, I wouldn't have listened because I don't like when people tell me what to do. Instead, I chucked a bag of laundry at my brother, threw my cell phone across the street, and locked myself in a car with a complete stranger and who, with me yelling and screaming and all was confused by the nature of our relationship, called the police on my brother sometime before or after the laundry bag incident. I wrote some of the most depressing shit ever. Like ever.

I was not in a good state.

A series of decisions neither good nor poor but mostly just lazy led me to similar, albeit more mild, situations time and again. Rather than making decisions that propelled me forward, I made decisions that required less effort, less thought. In dating, in work, in life. Then one day I woke up and realized I hated my job, my apartment, my hair cut, my thighs, and even my handbag collection. I was destined for something more! 

No, that's not how it happens. Losses, few of which I fully mourned - passing friendships, dudes I dated, writing gigs and random jobs - began to accrue. Super slowly I saw that I chose said losses. And in a champagne daze, noticed that I wasn't building much in terms of sustainability neither in my personal development nor my love life. Not even my work really. I was living a very fun life, but not a very full one.

I really needed some therapy.

See I'm a quick start. That means I thrive off of the beginning stages of projects, relationships, jobs, even online shopping and then move onto the next thing. I accomplish things quickly, but not always 100%. On the bright side, I'm a visionary. On the dark side, I am a quitter.  At my best, I enroll someone strong in follow through. At my worst, I apathetically leave a trail of losses.  One the one hand, I am resilient. On the other, I fail to fully process thus repeating my mistakes. Why do you think I've been on eighty-ish first dates? I'm actually a charming first impression, sexy eyes and all. My eighth grade teacher quoted, "Our strengths are our weaknesses!" But Ralph Waldo Emerson said our strengths grow from our weaknesses.

Maybe my eight grade teacher was eyes.

Some time even later, I woke up feeling utterly blasé. So totally helter skelter I decided to move forward. I hastily cut my French boyfriend lose and bid adieu to my  dancefloor friends. I gave that which I could predict and vowed to follow through with the unknown. I said goodbye to my shoe repair, tailor, vino chico, laundry guy, and Mia's nazi veterinarian. With my classy dog and my pretty (if obtrusive) ego, I gave a fair shake to my losses. Knowing when I meet them again, I will know their purpose as necessary to grow my own strength.

The world does not need another wasted visionary.

Emma Dinzebach

Whenever I'm having such a shitty week, I miss my friend Lowe. Well, I'm having such a shitty week, and I know she would be able to drag me out of it because she is the most amazing human being I will ever know. She is encouraging and supportive while gentle and generous. Lowe's industrious and impactful ways are inspiring. She gives without expecting anything in return. In fact, when she moved to Geneva, she gave me her Trek bike. Every time I rode it, I thought of her and her and felt her warm encouragement. No matter where I was, part of her spirit joined me.

Then this week that bike was stolen.  (Lowe, I'm so sorry, but your bike was stolen.)

I literally left it next to my garage to go inside and open the garage and bring it in. When I got there, it was gone. Five minutes, tops. And I live in a really nice neighborhood next to national park land. Maybe a racoon rode away on it. But a stolen bike alone didn't make my week shitty. Four of my employees gave their end-of-the-month notice. (Mostly because they are off to fulfill their goals, which I love and am truly excited for them. I just wish they didn't all go at once.) Then I had a $22.50 cab ride to my boyfriend's. Then my boyfriend and I got into an argument followed by an argument about how often we've been getting into arguments. Then Starbucks burned the coffee, a-gain. Then my friend and I were texting how much we miss New York; and I went into bunny-ears-on-the-dancefloor withdrawal. Then I felt lonely. Now I feel lonely, rather.


My patient boyfriend has grown tired of the tribulations associated with being Emma Dinzebach this week; and honestly, I'm starting to feel bad blabbing it all to him. I need a friend who, knowing all the times I've royally effed up in my life, still believes in me with unwavering loyalty. I need Lowe.

Lowe is thankful for me. She is confident that I enrich her life. And she is proud of me, not like a parent proud of me; but on her own free will, she is proud of me. She never fails to express her gratitude for our friendship or my listening or my blind guidance.

Lowe moves me.

At the end of this not-so-great week, I really needed someone to move me. My mom is out of town. My boyfriend is visiting his parents. My brother is doing his laundry. My best friend didn't answer. Mia is trying her best with a bisou-a-thon. What I really need is a dose of my pal Lowe, but she lives in Central African Republic. I have no idea what time it is there. So my next best option is to remind myself that I have been uncomfortable before and am here to tell the tale. Like that time I survived that long and painful camel ride through the Sahara because Lowe made us sing "Hooked on a Feeling." And I am cooler because of it. So maybe I'll be wiser because my bike was stolen. Or better with a leaner team. Or elevate Starbucks with feedback. Or elevate my relationship with love.

(You know some people they just won't understand these things.)

Emma Dinzebach

I wish I could say that, in the wake of shocking tragedy, what has stood out for me the most is the overwhelming love and kind support. While that has been steady and relentless, what actually stands out - as in, unexpected -  is the audacious, discourteous crudity human beings are comfortable displaying.

Last week, for instance, my coworker said, "A guy came in here. Josh I think. He said he used to know a girl who worked in Bethesda. When we asked him who it was he said, 'Emma.' We were like, 'She works here!' And he seemed excited. Then he looked around then left. Do you know a guy named Josh?"

I know one hundred Joshes.

But only one awkward enough to come into my place of employment shamelessly asking about me. Only one that would have been mistaken for gay. He has a pretty face.

"Was he Hispanic?" I asked. He was.

"Did he talk loudly?" He did.

"Might he have been full of himself?" He might have.

"Ugh...I went on a date with that guy," I admitted. I didn't write about it because he wore those True Religion jeans with the white stitching and a graphic polo like he was Ricky Martin about to shake his bon bon (Yes, I judge what people are wearing. Especially guys I go on dates with.); and I was embarrassed.

A little while later, I walked through the fit room and ran straight into Josh Gonzalez. Eff.

"Oh, hi. Josh. Hi. How are you? Good to see you? Hi..." I repeated feeling incredibly impatient and annoyed.

"Hi! Good to see you too!" Then he kissed both cheeks like a wanna be French person. "I walked in earlier, and they told me you worked here and that you would be in at three, so I thought I would stop in after my lunch meeting with my client." He was staring down at my hips. I followed his eyes and realized they were focused on my fanny pack. 

"Um, I don't normally wear fanny packs. Just today because I want to show how cool this one actually is..." I trailed off, starting to open it like I was actually going to explain the Bum Bag.

"Actually, I'm into fanny packs. If you would have stuck around you have found that out. Oh well. Your loss."  I looked up at him and swallowed the throw up in my mouth. "Anyway, so there was a mur-der in your store?! That was crazy. Did you know that girl? That was cra-zy! I mean, what happened?!"

Rendered speechless, I just stood there. I mean, seriously? Some human beings are complete idiots. This was the sixteenth or seventeenth time a person had overtly displayed high levels of insensitivity and tactlessness in the past couple weeks, and I was so over even dealing with it. When he saw the disgusted look on my face he said, "Well, let's not talk about it?"

"Yeah, let's not," I said in my meanest and most sarcastic tone.

"Oh, still sassy I see!" he said. And this time I held my breath so as not to throw up all over his Express Men's shirt. Although in retrospect, I wish I could have projectile vomited on demand. Like you know how people can burp the alphabet? I would just throw up on rude boys.

His phone rang, and he said, "I need to take this." He proceeded to walk around the store obnoixiously talking on phone. My coworker pulled me aside and asked, "Who is that guy?" I rolled my eyes. My face must have turned red because her eyes widened and she said "Oh, Emma." This was worse than the time I had to duck behind cash when I guy I had a one night stand with walked in. Even worse than the time I locked myself in the fitting room for 30 minutes while a guy I never called back tried on pants. And it gets worse.

"Well, I have to go," he declared as he hung up his phone and approached me again.

"Okay, well have a great weekend," I said plainly.

"Oh, I meant to tell you...So my friend started this website I thought you might want to check out. I thought it might align with your philiospohical beliefs or your company's philosophical beliefs. It's called chexout.com. It's a website for anonymous STD testing." Please make it stop.

Let me clarify, this guy knows nothing about my "philosophical beliefs." We went on 1.5 dates, and I never called him back.

"Excuse me?" I said, shocked.

"Yeah, I thought you might like it. Write it down. Write it down so you don't forget."

"Listen, I can remember it. I don't need to write it down. And the only person who tells people what to do around here is me. Have a nice evening Josh," I replied.

Truly, I don't think he got it. He just smiled and went on about something else, then bid farewell to the entire store like he was a regular. So rude. So clueless. And I have stories actually worse than this one - so bad that they are too inappropriate to publish. The moral of the story children, is to approach situations - no matter the discomfort they produce - with civility, courtesy and kindness. And every now and then, treat yourself to a new pair of jeans.

Emma Dinzebach

Alcohol never gave me hangovers. It used to torture my mother because I'd break curfew, be out all night (I was a rebel of sorts), come home obviously slightly intoxicated, then wake up fresh, chipper and ready for the day. She would scowl in my direction as I laced my running shoes and headed out the door for a morning run. While many parents used hangovers as a reliable crutch as to why their teenagers shouldn't drink alcohol, my mother had to be more creative. (I also don't buy the 21 years old thing, but that's a politically-charged and morally debatable post for another day when I'm not...)

A blessing and curse, I didn't have a solid grasp on my alocohol consumption because the after effects were slim to none. This went on for a while - post-college dance clubs, after parties, and skipping around town until everyone else was tired and had gone to bed. Unless I had done something indubitably stupid - like taken a shot of Jagermeister at 4 a.m. or skipped dinner - I was fine to go to work the following morning or entertain out of town family or take a Bikram yoga class. No. Problem. Whatsoever.


This morning I woke up at 6:40 a.m. feeling a bit off. I'm not nauseous. I don't have a headache. No, I'm not pregnant. It's more this tired, aching feeling in my eye sockets that I've recently been referring to as a "grownup hangover." I didn't notice it until about a year ago when I started taking my job more seriously. Determined to do my best and prove my worth, I committed to more sleep and less nights on the dance floor in the off chance those two factors affected my job performance. Plus, my job is so social (complete with dancing) that some days I get home and feel like I've been "out" all day. Social energy requires pique performance; thus the change. Slight change. But change nonetheless.

However slight, the change was enough to transform the dance floor-addicted version of me into a bona fide grownup. If I have too many champagne cocktails or even too much wine at dinner (See also: last night), I get this grownup hangover. Do I feel slightly pathetic that 2.5 glasses of Sauvignon Blanc can induce said eye socket ache pain? And embarrassed that I'm worried the guy in Starbucks can tell? And also stupid that I'm admitting this to public. Yes to all.

"So you have your grownup hangover right now," my friend confirmed.

"Yes. But you know, at least it means I had fun last night!" I exclaimed.

"You did!!! And that's what matters. Wait, what did you do again?" she asked. I hesitated.

"I... well, I painted my nails and watched The Office," I replied shamefully. I saw the look on her face.

Defeated, I have vowed this weekend to wear high heels and short dress and go out dancing and champagning. If I am to live in the age of grownup hangovers, it will damn well be worth it.

Emma Dinzebach

This took so long to write because sincerely, I wanted my first entry after Jayna's death to speak to her excellency in holding me accountable for my writing. A standout accountability steward she was: sending weekly texts longing for Emma Dilemma entries, calling me on my writing trip to make sure I was working diligently on my book, and gently scolding me when she caught me mid-shopping or at the nail salon. Jayna had a particular way of lacing her sternness in humor and love without masking the main message. "We all know you're an excellent shopper, but the world craves your written word. Get your ass back to work!"

I miss that.

Once Jayna started telling me about something she read in Elizabeth Gilbert's Committed. She explained to her always captive audience that when you let go of obsessing over "letting go," you create space for things that could not have otherwise been. Then she stopped, tilted her head and looked at me. "Wait. That wasn't in a book. That was on your blog!" she shouted jumping up and waving her stumpy fist in the air like she just discovered new land. "I thought that sounded familiar," I said, smiling and moved on like it wasn't a big deal. But it was. Jayna confused my blog for a really famous author's best selling book! I was in future best-selling writer heaven. I told everyone I know.

While I can recount anecdote after anecdote about how Jayna was and continues to be an instrumental force behind my writing, all of those stories make me miss her more. And frankly, she would tell me enough already. Jayna would encourage me to move on from the way things were. So that's what I'm committing to now.

In a myriad of ways, because in my healing process, I have changed. My friends and family irritate me a little bit less than they used to, and my poor boyfriend irritates me a little bit more. Apparently our glorified honeymoon stage has become an impasse leaving us just standing here staring at each other like: "Who the hell is this person and what the hell are they doing in my life?" Jayna predicted this feeling would come and warned me that once it did, it would never go away. So rather than being forever stuck in this feeling, she suggested moving towards acceptance. Thus I'm moving towards acceptance. Excuse moi, we are moving towards acceptance.

Today my friend Petra told me: "Emma, this is when the real relationship starts."

Well, shit.

But this is the course of all relationships, right? Jayna and I didn't become really close friends until we had several stubborn disagreements of which I was naturally not being the stubborn one. The closest relationships I have are those where we can disagree then tweak our communication styles until we find a balance that works for both of us. Sometimes this balance comes easily. Other times, I give up quickly - like with running partners, hockey players and dry cleaners. Then there are relationships where tweaking said communication requires tweaking thy self. Along with a dose of humbleness, which I'm not so good at. A great deal of patience, which I detest. Equanimity, which is far from my strength. Transparency, which I'm working towards. And most of all, forgiveness. Because in all likelihood, in trying to move forward, I will take some steps back.

And these are the important, life-changing relationships because life's a little bitch like that.

Emma Dinzebach

People around me are saying they don't like Valentine's Day. (Oh, not at work. At work we love Valentine's Day!) But people in general - my nail lady and neighbor. I even a group of girls outside of the yoga studio complaining that it's a a "Hallmark holiday" laden in social pressure, unrealistic expectations and gross consumption. I'm guessing their boyfriends are poor. My friend's husband even said Valentine's Day is an expensive waste of money and whined about being forced to show your love in socially acceptable ways. "If I love her I should be able to show it whenever I want!" "And if you actually did so, we probably wouldn't need Valentine's Day," I retorted. And so on and so forth. I agree, there are gross things about it - overpriced roses, high caloric consumption and even more so, the way Hallmark's cash-cultivating holiday has spread Eastward retaining the material pressure but leaving the message of love behind. For real, you think dudes here have pressure? Try living in Ghana. I'd argue it's no different than Christmas in that regard and possibly better because of the whole love thing, but Christmas has Jesus. You know how people get over Jesus.

Is a day that you are given free reign to tell people that you love them even so bad? Sure for people who have trouble expressing their emotions and pent up resentment because they had their hearts broken and now use maladaptive defense mechanisms to ward them against expressing their authentic selves and, and blah, blah, blah. But really? So once or twice or several times you were burned by something disguised as genuine love. A cheating boyfriend. An evil stepmother. A negative nelly of a friend. That doesn't mean you can't be and won't be genuinely loved. I actually think that having your heart broken is good for you. That raw and exposed feeling allows you to to be in touch with yourself in a manner otherwise hard to recreate. Feeling heartbroken means you tried for something. Albeit the something seemingly failed; but that emptiness is space that can be filled with something so great.  Have I digressed or is this still relevant? Anyway, without sounding so preachy and cliche or whatever, use the day to focus on the positive, love-filled aspects of your life and tell those people how special and loved they are.

And in that light, I want to thank my boyfriend for not being at all not even a little bit someone who complains about Valentine's Day and using every chance he can get to make me feel special and loved. And my parents for at one point loving each other enough to create me and then my step parents for showing my real parents that they can again love. And to thank my brother for continually reminding me that humans aren't the only creatures who need love, but dogs and deer and turtles too. For the sake of your sanity, I'll skip everyone else and just say that for a snippy, sometimes sarcastic, maybe a hint snotty and a teeny tiny bit bossy girl, I am also quite loving. Should you feel lacking there in this Valentine's Day, please feel free to give me a holla because I have plenty of sugary love to go around.

Emma Dinzebach

My District bestie, Kaitlyn Ferrara, is walking in this Washington D.C. charity event called "Fashion for Paws" with one freckle-faced shiba inu who you might know better by her work terrifying pooches at the Washington Square Park dog run. Don't let her sleepy Dior-lined eyes fool you; she's feisty. While writing a very similar, most color description of Miss Mia for Kaitlyn's charity happy hour invite, I got to thinking about Turkey en generalmente. Like, where did this Turkey even come from?

I met my first shiba inu my senior year of college on a trip to San Diego. My friend Pierre was staying with these people who had two dogs: one female hound/pit/lab mutt named Willie and a male shiba inu named Tosh. Confusing because Willie was short for like Wilma or something and Tosh was not short of Natasha because Tosh was a dude dog. Anyway, Tosh wanted nothing to do with Pierre, but enter three girls (myself + 2) and Tosh turned into a happy snuggle pup. Turns out, Tosh loved chicks. And we loved that sweet, foxy fox dog and his curly tail.

Then I moved to Manhattan and learned that fox dogs are good apartment dogs because they rarely bark and require little space. I walked around saying "Fox dog!" "Fox dog!" "Fox dog!" whenever I spotted one. I wanted a fox dog. 

Fast-forward. I was dating a musician with a lovely singing voice but aversion to exercise.  He used to go outside, get his shirt wet with the hose, then  come inside and pretend he had gone running. In all fairness, I might have told him that 80-year-old men run faster than him. It wasn't my kindest moment. Well, even with borderline man-boobs, he somehow managed to have this following of girls. Fans, if you will. Occasionally the fans were a bit close for comfort and on one such occasion, I received a Facebook message from a blonde named Corinne that read: "Your boyfriend wanted me to come over tonight and had I done it we certainly would have hooked up. I just found out he has a girlfriend. Sorry." Along with a barrage of message exchanges between she and my boyfriend. Gross.

I yelled for a long time. Some might even say I screamed. Until eventually, I broke up with him. The next day I received a call from him pleading, "Come over. Please just come over for five minutes. I have something for you. You don't have to stay and I know you hate me right now, but please come over. Just five minutes."

You see where this is going?

He opened the door to his bedroom and on a pillow on the floor was a red and white shiba inu puppy with a pink ribbon bow around her neck. She looked up at me with her freckle fox face. What was I supposed to do? I was twenty-three, and I was like "Awwwww. Ohhhhh. Our fammmmily." Gag. In retrospect, I should have taken dog and peaced. Mistakes were made.

Six months later I walked in on him in bed with someone else.

But the real point of the story is that out of a relationship laden in learning opportunities, I became the doting mother to a borderline brilliant, obviously beautiful and quite athletic shiba inu who loves the D-floor and like her mother, is a bit of a grinder. I used to brag on her princessness and other wonderful qualities, but then she just became and integrated part of me. Sure, I have no problem telling anyone, "My dog is smarter than yours... and probably you." But with time, I talk about her less and appreciate her more - for her relentless happiness, for her ironic aversion to men, because she won't last two minutes in a Halloween costume but will sit still while I paint her nails and best of all, for continuously reminding me that it's always a good time to dance.

Emma Dinzebach

I was innocently listening to my iPod and scribbling away in my journal about letting go of my expectations and living in the moment, I notice several different guys starting in my direction. I am positively careful not to make eye contact. This is my sunshine afternoon to myself, and I will not have it blackened by the likes of some random.

So I managed to avoid several male onlookers and as I was thinking I should make another attempt to find this boutique I'd passed a few days earlier, a short and stocky Asian dude sat next to me and said: "What are you listening to?"
Me: "Beach House."
Him: "Oh, you like house music!'
Me: "No it's a band, called Beach House."
Him: "I'm a D.J.!"
Me: "Oh, cool."
Him: "Yeah, I love house music. Do you drive?"
Me: "Like do I know how to drive or do I actively drive?"
Him: "Well, I mean like I don't have a car here, so I don't really drive. I didn't have a car in Chicago either, which meant I didn't drive for seven years. But like last weekend I rented a car and just put a house CD in and drove."
Me: "That sounds bad for the environment."
Him: Nervous laughter. "Well those CD's are like seven hours."

There there was a bit of silence, and I wondered if maybe he was a little slow. He continued to stare at me, and when I was uncomfortable enough I said: "So, um where are you from?"
Him: "You're never going to believe this, but I'm from Wisconsin." Like I would know nothing about the great state of Wisconsin.
Me: "That's funny. I went to the University of Wisconsin."
Him: "What, a fellow badger?!?!" He held up his hand for a high five.

Oh good god. A little vomit filled my mouth because I'm really into high fives. For some reason I'm not that good at them, but what was I to do? He had a sort of rash or maybe it was birthmark thing covering his eye and something was wrong with his left front tooth, like it was mechanically inserted into his gum but with a bit of tooth/gum separation and a bit of blackness around the separation. You can't leave someone like that hanging. So I hesitantly connected my palm to his.

Him: "Yeah, I just moved out here for graduate school."
Me: "Oh what are you studying?"
Him: "[something really scientific with a lot of syllables]" He is Asian remember.
Me: Silence. Because what would I say to that?

I'll spare you the rest of the conversation where he tried to pronounce Sanskrit yoga terms; but note that there was a second high five after which I said I had to go to Nike Town to look for sneakers. While he was still chatting about taking up running, I packed up my journal and bid a quick but polite farewell.

Inside of Nike Town, I stood near women's running sneakers when I noticed a short Asian man peering at me from behind the windbreakers. He ducked down. I registered my impeccable intuition but felt fear free, so I continued towards the men's. From the corner of my eye I could see him around the wall. So I did what any frequently stalked woman would do and ignored him. Several minutes later, I saw him peering from behind the men's basketball mani. This time I quickly but effortlessly rushed towards the escalator to exit. Halfway down, I noticed him standing at the bottom of the escalator next to the security guard.

Him: "I thought I'd check out some new kicks too! Thanks for the idea!"
Me: "Oh, good luck with that."
Him: "Good luck with yoga and writing and going to see art and running and..."

I was mostly appalled by my casual ability to openly share with a desperate stranger. In that moment, I realized why I have so many weird, crazy, creepy dude stories. This may come as a shock to you: I'm hopelessly nice. Nice to a fault. I feel bad for these dudes. It's hard to go up to a pretty woman, sunlight catching her green eyes, hair blowing in the wind and whatnot. I think of that MTV show with that guy and he tried to teach those nerdy guys how to score chicks. I would have talked to all of those guys, which I guess makes me a leader on-er of sorts.

Emma Dinzebach

For weeks I've been promising inquiring readers, my accountability steward, my boss, aunt, shoe repair guy, spin instructor and so on that this would be the week that I would emerge from my artistic repression and break my blog silence. I've tried to write this post seven times, weighting the posts with heavy titles like "Creative Containment" and "Breaking the Silence" and fluffing them with sexy pictures and airhead sarcasm. The words felt inauthentic. The strange style betrayed my voice. Until finally, I settled for a more mild version of me. Without further ado, here goes:

My love is artistically repressive - in part because I spend all of my free time engulfed in said love and in part because the object of my affection is a repressor of sorts. Or that's the story I've created. He didn't particularly warm to the idea that at any moment I might blab his love affair with luon or addiction to Blistex Medicated to heaps of creepy strangers. The possibility of feeling exposed reportedly increases his vulnerability and hinders his ability to act freely. Imagine trying to build a relationship with someone who is consistently concerned that you might, at any moment, air out his dirty unmentionables. Consequently, my desire to mollify his hesitation (see also: make him happy) and build an open and trusting foundation slowly undermined my formerly devoted artistic expression.

Or that's the story I've created.

In fairness to me, he has specifically expressed reservation regarding my creative outlet citing its unpredictable and uncensored nature to which I argue that I would certainly never write anything uncouth about him. I love him. But then what would I write? People in love don't really want to write about snarky dilemmas and certainly none that revolve around dating. There isn't much unpleasant about a world characterized by ardent admiration, enamored captivation and blissful adoration. Plus with all of the passionate sex, who has time to detail a dilemma on a silly little blog? 

Um, I do.

I might be experiencing some sort of nauseating love euphoria, but I'm not living on another planet. Blaming my failure to write on his reservation or our love-drunk happiness conveniently removes personal responsibility and accountability. My artistic repression is a constitution all my own. I failed to organize and prioritize myself in a way that maximizes my time and puts my goal first. Rather, I’ve spent the few hours I can pry myself from his bed in either downward facing dog or shopping. Yes, shopping. I’ve organized and reorganized my jewelry. I’ve written thank you cards and “To Do” list after nasty “To Do” list. I’ve sat on my bed and attempted to meditate, practiced my handstand, cleaned my bathroom. The longer I put it off, the harder it was to write. But if writing is my creative-outlet and I'm not writing, then I'm not expressing myself, living in the moment, achieving harmony and so on.... If I love myself, I will write.

And I for sure love myself.

If my patient and increasingly open boyfriend accepts me in full (god help him), then he will trust that what I create for the e-universe will embody tact and graciousness. What I can do is continue to assure him that while crazy, I'm also thoughtful and sickeningly aware. Feelings need not be sacrificed for the sake of creation...at least not his. As far as everything else, I'm letting that go so I can allow myself to create freely and frequently. And I apologize in advance for all the sappy Bruno Mars-style shit I may write. I heard that happens to artists in love.

Emma Dinzebach

Rewind to a few nights ago on Thanksgiving Part II (I had two Thanksgivings) when my aunt asked if she could give my number to her friend's friend's son's friend or whoever who I had previously agreed was tall enough, musically inclined enough, athletic enough and wealthy enough to date me. Exhausted from black Friday and consequently unconsciously on auto pilot I said, "Yes." But then I paused, and my face twisted. My forehead wrinkled. I need a bit of Botox, I thought. "Well..." I stammered while I tried to sort through my thoughts so I could pull out one that actually made sense. "Um, actually..."

"I think Emma has a boyfriend," said my mom.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" asked my aunt in a voice that made me feel like I was the nerd in high school who no one ever wanted to kiss.

"You have a boyfriend?" yelled my grandma from across the room. I thought she couldn't hear.

Rapid rushes cognitive dissonance made my brain start to ache and I rubbed my temples. I took a deep breath.
The "b" word was borderline giving me an anxiety attack.

My dad always told me not to put all of my eggs in one basket. Plus, I'm liberal. See also: pro- diversification. There are many pros to dating several dudes: I don't have to rely on just one person to meet every requirement. I go on lots of dates, which I love. And I'm bit princessy in that I like being courted and fussed over. Diversifying my dates means that I'm not the go to for every ounce the emotionally repressed garbage that surfaces when you begin to feel particularly close with someone.

The answer "no" teetered on the edge of my tongue just begging to jump out but I couldn't let it because the answer, with-a-little-wiggle-room-so-I-don't-feel-like-I'm-going-to-pass-out, is not "no."

"Emma, did I just hear you have a boyfriend?" yelled my uncle from the kitchen. My face burned, but still no words came out. I felt like my seventh grade algebra teacher who never failed to call on me when I was lustfully daydreaming about Justin Hayward walking through the halls of the middle school, his pants all low and skateresque. He was my Jordan Catalano. Although I was much cooler than Angela Chase, I recreated their hallway exchanges verbatim. He would walk up to and say, "Emma?" I would bat my eyelashes to encourage him to sing my name again.  "Emma?" he repeated. "HELLO TO EMMA! What is the the probability of choosing a green M&M?"

"Huh?"

"Well, what does he do?" asked my grandpa for the second time.

"I...um, I don't know..."

"You don't know what he does? Then he's not your boyfriend," declared my grandpa.

"No, I know what he does, Grandpa." I insisted. 

"Well, I won't give him your number if you have a boyfriend," my aunt concluded.

"Can we stop saying the 'b' word? Give him my number...or don't. Maybe don't. I mean, do whatever you want," I said dismissively. Sensing my hesitation, my family moved topics.

What just happened? I wondered as I walked back downstairs so my two-year old cousin could fix me another pretend cat food milkshake, this time with banana. Why was I so caught off guard? Why did I need to over-dramatize a simple question? Most of the heterosexual female population are thrilled to say someone is their boyfriend. Aren't I? The "b" word felt so not a part of my world. It would be like if Charlie Sheen suddenly stopped having sex. Bad analogy actually; but imagine you are this very confident, very strong-willed woman who bounces around from city to city exuding a half essential/half fabricated persona revolving around being single. Everyone loves you this way. You love you this way.

Then one day, you wake up and realize that you haven't been out in several weeks because you spend every night staring into the dark blue eyes of some dude you can't seem to pry yourself away from long enough to have your hair properly colored. It's confusing. Add in your readers and that sorority you consider a place of employment and before your pretty little self can even entertain the "b" word people are sending a barrage of emails and texts begging, "Inquiring minds want to know!"

I would love to say "It's none of your business. And while you're at it get a life," but I've made it their business to know my business because it's actually my business.

That is irony. 

Emma Dinzebach

One post-bellini sunny Sunday I went to this shitty dive bar (and as you know I absolutely detest shitty dive bars) to meet this dude that I was thinking about possibly, maybe dating, when out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a guy I had gone on one date with pouring a beer out of a pitcher. I cringed at the memory of our date, a horribly dull evening and a total waste of calories. He had sent several texts one of which said, "I realize our date was a bit lackluster." A bit lackluster? I thought. That makes lackluster look like New Year's 1999. Afterward, I had written that I'd rather be in a coma than on a date with him. And shit, I honestly couldn't even remember his name.

"How are you?" I said smiling and waving to him, trying desperately to think of his name. Derek? Lance? Dan? I think it's Dan. Eff.

"What's new?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing," I lied. It's annoying when boring people ask "What's up?" because then you go on excitedly about everything you are up to just to politely flip the question and hear an irksome...

"Nothing," he responded. (See I knew it.) These people will respond "nothing" no matter what you say; so you may as well avoid a conversation all together.

Then he stepped aside to pour another beer leaving my friend and I to politely chat with his friend who was admittedly kind of hot. "So how do you know Dave," his friend asked. Dave! Dave. Duh.

"Um, we went out on a date once," I began, "but then I lost my phone." Trying desperately to backpedal I foolishly continued speaking.  "For like two weeks I didn't have the right phone. I lose my phone a lot. When I studied abroad in college, I lost six cell phones..." I babbled.

"Oh, um, I see. Well, sometimes that happens. So what do you think of his place?" he asked.

"His place? Oh, we only went on one date. I didn't go to his place." As if!

"No, his place," he repeated spreading out his arms and gesturing towards the bar.

Then an energy-saving LCD light bulb went off inside my busy little brain, and I remembered that the Dave dude did own a bar. I pictured it much nicer in my mind. My afternoon mission to catch a quick minute with a high potential or whatever landed me in the coma dude's bar. It turned out that the dude I liked was tired from his weekend and being quiet (which I don't even know what to do with), so he went home leaving me in a bar owned by some dude who, as evidenced by the sixty texts he sent me over the following two days, was obviously trying to get with me. I never responded because seriously, I cannot thrive in an environment characterized by broken bathroom sinks and the stench of last night's vomit. The entire afternoon was a colossal waste of time that left me longing to leisurely browse Didier Ludot with a baguette peaking out of my Birkan or sip prosecco atop La Rinascente. It made me miss September Sundays at Felix and strolling along the Hudson with my Mexican boyfriend who was, amongst other things, extremely well-dressed. The whole hairy experience left me downtrodden, romantically deprived and seriously vowing to more meticulously catalog my dates.

Emma Dinzebach

I almost didn’t pass my zoology weed out class in college. Don’t let the world “zoology” trick you; it was hard. With heavy personal shit weighing on my mind, I couldn’t make myself focus on my ancient professor’s dry words. Just before finals, I went to his office and requested to take my final early. He looked at my sad, tired face then my bony borderline unhealthy frame, and closed his eyes. Is he dying? I wondered. After a few minutes, he looked up at me and asked me to promise never to microwave any plastic. Then he gave me an A. I never took the final. Don’t ask me anything about zoology.

I think about that sometimes when I’m weeding out my dates. I got a free pass essentially, because I was an A student who was just having a visibly hard time. He graded me in entirety, not on that one class. (I graduated magna cum laude in my major.) My dating weed out process is similar to weed out classes in college although expectations are chronologically harder and exceptions are overall harder to come by.

Weed Out Requirements

After 2 dates:

• Acceptable footwear & apparel
• Intelligent
• Pro gay rights
• Musically inclined
• Healthy diet
• Genuinely exudes kindness
• Likes to dance
• Athletic
• Makes me laugh

After 4 weeks:

• Mind-blowing sex
• Innately creative
• Fiscally uber responsible
• Goal-oriented
• Thinks I'm funny
• Loves to travel
• Cares about our planet
• References Mia's intelligence
• Has funny, open-minded friends

After 6 weeks:

• Supports my writing goals
• Honest & immediate communicator
• Has exhibited high levels of patience
• Gives & receives feedback
• Makes an effort to get to know my friends
• Consistently aware of & actively working on his issues
• Lives freely
• Loves openly

The list seems reasonable. Creative people usually dance. Good dancers have great sex. People who want to travel and save their scrilla are often goal-oriented. And so on. But it’s actually not an easy combination to find. Just 17% of guys I date make it past the two-date mark and only 7% make it beyond week cuatro. A slim 6% make it beyond week 6; but I only end up calling 5% my boyfriend. If there were a 5% chance of rain, would you pull out your Pucci rainboots? Not a chance.

At this point, the Rams have a better chance of winning the Superbowl than a dude does of becoming my boyfriend. 

I recently became obsessed with analyzing these weed out requirements with the dude I'm dating and wondering: If he's super strong in super important requirements (communication, patience, intelligence) can others be his zoology classes? In my attempt to weigh their importance, I started adding things: must love Mia, must periodically attend yoga, must live in a city and deal with all of my crazy lists and scheduling. Must snuggle on demand. Must be a bit more gentle but not too gentle just the perfect amount of gentle. Must wear luon, know my love language, visit my store, pretend I'm making sense. Must, must, must, must, must…He estimated I spoke 80% of the six hours we spent together discussing this.

He is magically patient.

I exhausted myself; but eventually, I answered my question. I’m hoping when I become as old as my zoology professor, a weed out exception won’t be such a dramatic, draining process.  But it probably will.

Emma Dinzebach

Last weekend several people hoping for some witty dude-centric anecdote asked who I was dating. I thought for a minute, choosing my words carefully, then calmly said, "Yes, but it's quite new and I'm not sure I can speak on it yet." They looked at me, heads tilted and wide-eyed, not believing that there is anything won't blab about, especially when it comes to the opposite sex. "Nothing?" asked my cousin. "Um, not any particularly exciting. I mean, I can tell you what he does and whatever," I replied risking disappointing a strong member of my fan base. Not that I couldn't think of several things perfectly provocative, but this time is different.

Famous. Last. Words.

Different not because the relationship is different - although possibly - but really because I am different. Not like dramatically different. I'm still the same semi-spaz, ego raging out of control to my girlfriends something along the lines, "I don't have to spend my time him! Effing hell. Doesn't he know I'm busy. And there are millions, literally millions, of men out there. Millions!" and blah, blah, blah. Then I'd run that racket for a while, rant about it on my cute little blog, and so on until found a suitable replacement and was distracted by some other dealbreaker from some other dude.  That was the formula: get excited, hand the baton to my ego, channel Lily Allen and next. Oh it's a total formula for failure if you are trying to actually date someone, but if you are trying not to date someone, it's perfectly brilliant.

Perfectly brilliant.

Unfortunately, I'm going to have to pause that formula because as it turns out, I'm evolving at some abnormal rate for a 5'3 girl called Wolf. Wolfie. Wolfesse. And the Evolution of Wof extends to dating. So a few days ago, I was having a semi-regressive but blissful moment of monumental arrogance and sat down to tell the world that guys are idiots. That I'm totally right about X, Y and Z. I mean, duh. Plus I'm smarter, more fun, a better dancer and have "so much more self-awareness it's literally nauseating!" than... I stopped typing. Someone somewhere shouted, "Cut!" and confusion set it. I looked around.

I thought I was directing this shit?

See I have this idea that every guy I date should know exactly what to do with me as I've borderline dedicated an entire website to it complete with dealbreakers and check lists and whatever else I write on this stupid blog. Dating me should be a cakewalk. Easy breezy. It's all here; just read, respond, repeat. It's so easy! They are so lucky! If I had detailed instructions like this, I would be golden. (Except I'd still knob it up because I'm obsessed with breaking rules.)  Wait, is everyone getting this? Read, respond, repeat. I couldn't have made it easier if I cooed airplane noises and fed it to them on a silver spoon. Except during my pause (see above), everything felt a bit passe: Am I still complaining about this? Passive aggressive blogging, blah, blah...it's so played out. If I'm evolving at such a rapid rate, I should by now be direct. I'm nothing if not direct.

So I picked up the telephone.

Emma Dinzebach

So I'm a bit a of a spaz... or so they say. Partially due to the abnormally high amount energy I was born with and partially due to being a neurotic Virgo. Plus I think that the more you work out the more endorphins you release and the more prone you are to being a spaz; or that's a complete Type A excuse. So what they say is true. I once declared that I wasn't going to be a spaz anymore: wasn't going to carry on and on about inconsequential life events, dramatizing X and exaggerating Y at the drop of a dime. My friend Anthony looked at me like I was a crazy person and said, without hesitation:


See, "totally hot." And furthermore, if I'm laid back and calm, then I'm actually not me. This planet certainly does not need another boring calm person. (It actually doesn't even need another person. Not. Even. One.) Some circumstances make me more spastic than others. Like this one dude I know makes me a total and complete neurotic, controlling spaz attack to the point where I honestly had to cut off contact with him because I thought I might for real explode. He kept telling me to "relax." In that circumstance I actually did need to relax, but when he said it he sounded like my father who used to say, "Come on. RE-LAX." to me when I was upset when I was little, which made me even more upset.

Word from the wise: If someone is in a tizzy over something - whatever it is - the last thing they want to hear is "relax." That has never worked to relax someone in the history of the word relax. Never.

Something that has made me learn to chill is discovering that whatever meaning I put on something isn't actually real. It's my perspective. It's meaning I made up. So, for example, if I say to my tailor, "I think I gained weight since I bought these jeans." And he replies, "Well, then just eat less and go running." That does not mean that he is agreeing that I'm fat and need to lose weight. It doesn't mean anything actually. Nothing. I can spend the rest of the day spazzing out over being fat, or I can choose not to attach meaning on it and move on with my day.

I actually do need to lose five pounds though.

While I've accepted my fate as fairly high strung and borderline crazy, I've learned that in directing my spaz-energy to things I love to do - write, flirt, dance, shop, have sex, run - I create space to chill. But who the hell wants to chill when you could be doing all of things you love with fervor and zest? That's what I still don't get about learning to chill.

Emma Dinzebach

Last week I wrote something called "Recycling Ways of Letting Go." In absence of actually being ready to "let go," I couldn't bring myself to post it. (Um, yes there are some things that even I don't feel comfortable prematurely exposing.) So I stepped back and prepared to practice the proverbial art of letting go. Normally, when I'm in letting-go mode I hold my head up high and march forward without looking back. Forward I find distractions to lift my discomfort and divert my attention. Eventually, the sadness fades without me even feeling the sadness at all. This method has gotten me by for years.

My method didn't feel quite right last week. If I distract myself from my feelings, then I appear invulnerable and possessing some abnormal strength. Several people have said it comes off like I never really cared about the person, place or thing I'm letting go because I'm so quickly on to the next one: the next city, the next assignment, the next relationship, and so on. It's part my "quick start" nature which allows me to create heightened excitement around something new and different. In general, quick starts have an easier time letting go.




But this quick start (eh, hem, moi) is practicing leading by example. In this case, the example being that it is okay to be sad or upset or disappointed. Sometimes you don't get what you want even if you are normally really, really, really good and doing so. It's okay to need a little time to process the word "no." During my processing time (one week that felt ten million years long), it occurred to me that the whole term "letting go" annoys me. How long do we have to let go before we really just need to get over it? The whole saying "let go" sounds like something really hard and awful that requires divine strength and intricate networks of support. I was over letting go.

Later in the week, I let go of "let go."  Those two stupid words to be forever replaced with "creating space." After all, moving away from one thing allows space in your life (and in your brain) for something else. Friday evening my on-again, off-again object of adoration invited me out, and while it could have resulted in a much more stimulating way to fill my new found space, I kind of liked the space. Just for a little while - even just one night - I wanted the space to stay. 

Saturday, with the space unoccupied and well-rested, the universe responded by providing me with something awesome that I might not have been prepared to receive if I hadn't the space. With the space, I got the awesome. Not the potential-to-create-orgasm kind of awesome, but awesome nonetheless.

Emma Dinzebach

So I'm fully using this blog as my personal forum to vent. After all, it's mine, and I can do whatever I want with it. Vent I will. I don't like any of my dates. I have had three dates in four days, and at the end of it I wanted to put something sharp and preferably red hot into my eye socket...and twist.

Date #1: Heart. Literally, there are days I wake up and think I might actually be in love with him. And it could be a beautiful thing except that he's not on board. He's not even straddling the fence. Nope. This dude is standing on the other side of the fence staring adorably and adoringly into my eyes. Still, the fence divides. I can only pass him tools - ladders and ropes and a damn chainsaw - so many times before I have no more tools to give. "Figure your own fucking way over the fence!" I want to scream. But I don't. I go to Home Depot. 

Date #2: Could have sufficed, especially in light of my silent rejection from Date #1, but he doesn't work out enough and I need to wake up next to something I long to lick. He also talks in arrogant excess. He once asked me if I was a "student of Shakespeare" and some vomit came into my mouth. Now I appreciate that he gets my Macbeth reference, and I like that we share an affinity for literature; but he doesn't use it with witty conviction. He just says it... and every other thought in his mind on and on on. He needs to take that energy to the gym.

Date #3: Doesn't even deserve this blog because he is so boring and dull that I would have more fun in a coma than on a date with him.

So the normal me would not worry about it because it's not really hard for me to find dates. But in light of the current situation with Date #1, I need these other stupid dates to distract me. No, I can't distract myself. Yes, I tried. Not any amount of working out or shopping or writing or reading or even Cirque du Soleil can distract me. Who even am I? I need to snap out of this. Suffering is not a good look for me. It gives me wrinkles and makes me feel uncomfortable, powerless, and all around horrible about something that I'm inherently really good at. Stupid suffering.

Some days I really don't know how Jesus did it on that cross.

Emma Dinzebach

At first I wrote a list of all the things I was thankful for in the past year - a summary of blessings bestowed on the 27-year-old version of myself. I thought rather than focusing on what I do not have, I'd start the 28 off with a concrete foundation solidified by blabbing it to y'all. When I wrote it all out, I realized that it might make readers gag or fall asleep or both. Wouldn't you so much rather read about how between all the shopping and writing and friend making and downward facing dog, I am continually emotionally tormented? Um, obvi.


This is so ridiculous, I should be embarrassed. So I told my current "emotional tormentor" that for my birthday I wanted a two-part date that included: A ) us having a birthday cocktail and B ) during the birthday cocktail scheduling a follow-up dinner date. He half agreed because he has some weird issues right now where he claims he is "not going out with girls" or something. (No, he's not gay. Yes, he likes me. There was mention of fear of commitment. Fear of commitment is a bullshit fear. You are committed to paying your rent, going to work, walking your dog. You are committed to your friends, mother, laundry guy, baseball team, lucky boxers, lucky stilettos, Entourage. You actually do not have a fear of commitment. You likely have raging insecurity issues and actually fear of abandonment, but I digress.)

From what I know he really isn't currently going out with girls; but he has to be sleeping with somebody right? So I pulled out my favorite vintage Dior Chapeaux detective hat and did a little poking around just to find out he isn't sleeping with somebody - at least not the same person consistently. That's odd, I thought. And he sure has hell isn't sleeping with me. Currently, we have been on 1 1/2 dates over an unacceptably long period of time. According to my detective calculations, at this rate we can sleep with each other sometime around mid-February.


For the love of god, can we hurry this along already? I mean whatever! I get it.  I'm intense, intimidating, yadda, yadda, yadda, but seriously? Get the hell over it and quit being such a... (I might make a nasty necrophilia reference, but I would never say the "P" word.) Thus, my unprecedented patience is in it's final act. The alternate ending being that I just get over it because it would be an absolute travesty to mankind for me to die of sexual deprivation. Although it would make for an excellent film.

In the filthy meantime, do I take Ms. Yessica's advice and drink from my tired trough? After all, I was president of my high school Planet Patrol because I am best in the world at recycling.

Emma Dinzebach

People aren't usually comfortable saying my last name out loud. They feel nervous they might mess it up, and odds are they will. It's pronounced exactly how it's spelled, but the "z" is scary and the "bach" is unfamiliar and no one understands why it's missing a second "n." Because isn't it Dinzenbach? No, it's not.

There are a few people who defy fear and just say it. My friend Josh from college. My middle school soccer coach. Leo's dad. Lin the laundry man. Both brothers Martignetti. And now this guy I just met whose name is not Alejandro.

But I wanted it to be Alejandro and asked him if I could call him Alejandro, which is totally bizarre and borderline incorrigible; but for some reason (probably the eyes), he conceded. I was too lazy to type Alejandro, and while I could have entered his real, slightly shorter, name, I wrote Aj. With a small "J" since it's not actually an initial name.

I wondered if Aj was going to call me, but not for long because I was extremely sick and consequently extremely busy. So when I looked at my phone and saw a call from Aj, I thought Who the hell is Aj? AJ Otto. AJ Krane. No, that's JJ Krane. AJ my seven-year-old cousin. He has a cell phone? I call my best friend AJ. Did I change her number in my phone for some reason? Well, the Aj didn't leave a message, so I couldn't actually be sure. And I have to frequently delete all of my text messages for another reason not actually worthy of blogging about (and if I sound at all bitter, it's because I am); so I couldn't use previous sms communication. Now had he left a message... So I just called the person back. Well what do you know? It was Alejandro who name is not Alejandro but is apparently Aj, which cracks me up. I have him saved as Aj. He has me saved as Emma Dinzebach. He talked a lot more than most guys do on the phone. Then again I've only recently been talking to this one guy who makes me so nervous that I don't shut up.

Imagine that.  

That's pretty much all because it was just a phone conversation during which I looked a check my grandmother gave me for my birthday (which is on Monday, August 30th) and noticed my dad's name has been added to her checking account. And then I wondered Can he hook me up? And then I wondered What will my dad get me for my birthday? I should go online and pick something out. Aj was talking while I was shopping for thigh high boots. Since I'm a sort-of-psychologist, I quickly recognized that the situation had become weirdly Freudian and said, "You should go!"

And he said something like, "We haven't known each other long enough for you to tell me what to do." (Which in all honesty sounds like something I would say.) Then chided, "What did you think, I was so enthralled by our conversation I was going to forget all together to go to my friend's?" I didn't know what to say to that because A. He stole my "Don't tell me what to do." line, and everyone knows that whoever uses that line first gets to keep it & B. Had he worded it differently (i.e. taken out the "what did you think"), it could have been rather sweet. So I said, "I'm sorry." He laughed. I wasn't sure why.

Then I realized I was totally not being myself because I'm not sorry for anything except that I said I'm sorry and that the pair of boots I really want are $1,700, and my dad will not buy those for me in this lifetime. Too many Canadians are making me sorry, which is disguising itself in consideration. I'm not sure it's doing me much good because I'm not getting reciprocated consideration. Oh, but from a different situation entirely.

Now I've certainly said too much.

Imagine that.

Emma Dinzebach

Spending so much time in the Northwest reinforced my decisive disdain for hippies. The bottoms of their jeans are dirty. Their children are barefoot hiking on trails with sharp rocks and slimy slugs because being one with nature is more important than child safety. (And I'm not sure making feather hats on the street corner has great benefits.) Their earth-loving projection dissolves instantly when you spot a dirty pack of Marlboro lights peaking out of their Patagonia hip packs. Are they really homeless or do they just dress like homeless people? For their part, they actually know nothing about pop music because their musical evolution, like their brain functionality, is really slow. They are still listening to Bob Marley. They got fucking lucky with Bob Marley.

Hippies idea of fun is driving an rusty RV from Alaska to Argentina...or String Cheese at Red Rocks.
Hipsters idea of fun is Emmaboda...or Empire of the Sun at Henry Fonda.

Hipsters jeans are clean because they don't touch the ground and need to be rewashed to reshrink. Most have homes but eat like homeless people. See also: anorexia. How the hell else do they fit into those Levis 510s? As it turns out, sitting around Ruby's all day doesn't actually pay well, so they have to take the subway to Williamsburg. (But don't think they are happy about it.) Hipsters say they detest that Billionaire song by Travie McCoy, but when it comes on, they know the words. Their musical knowledge is actually pretty vast, but as soon as pop songs turn poppy, Potrero Hillsters turn their back on them. Poor MGMT. Poor Chromeo. If Kid Cudi weren't so emotionally tormented, he'd be long gone. They do have an eye for emerging music and a somewhat wide variety that includes underground hip hop, electronica, old school rap, old school country, punk. They are still listening to the Ramones.
They got fucking lucky with Joey Ramone.

Hipsters heart cocaine. Hipsters wear Jeffrey Campbell.

After the Taliban, the SPLA and probably Hezbollah, homeless hippies are the worst human beings on earth. They smoke cigarettes, beg for weed, and make their poor pups homeless too. My friend saw one buying red bull with food stamps. True story. But if they buy regular food, they will compost. Hipsters are way too cool to get food stamps. Plus, they don't need food, remember.

Hippies are racist. Hippies [still] wear hemp.

Model hipsters make me want to crawl into a hole and die because for something so pretty their vintage Dior silk blouse is wrinkled and their zipper combat boots could use a trip to the Sullivan Street shoe saint. Hipsters with accents easily date said models. Then the club promoters love them because they are dating models and the clubs love the promoters because they tote models. And while they raise a clubs "cool factor," they don't bring in dough because neither the hipster nor the hipster model has many money. Plus, they are horrible tippers.

Hipsters hip bones dig into you too much when you're hooking up.

But I'd choose a hipster because they live in cities, so they are forced to cooperate with other human beings. They own a suit. They will take you to Morimoto (and maybe even eat with you) on your birthday. And even if they are poor, they don't talk about it because, unlike hippies, they know that discussing their financial state is unattractive.

Plus, hippies dreads kind of smell like spoiled sour cream when you're hooking up.

Or so I've heard.

Emma Dinzebach

The reason the situation warranted a hero lost any trace of importance the second the hero walked in the room. What's important is the effect said hero had in changing the direction of my evening and gracing my afternoon pilates class with Nora Roberts-worthy flashbacks. Flashbacks usually fade overtime. Flashbacks are supposed to fade over time. But the more time that passes, the stronger his effect.

I stared down at my suitcase, trying to remember where I put my pajamas. My cheeks burned from embarrassment and I tried not to look up. The spots on my face where tears had escaped, now felt dry and tight. Emma Dilemma, I thought. From the corner of my eye I saw him taking off his shirt, and even though I told myself not to stare, to look straight, my head turned. I gasped quietly then quickly turned back to my bag. Do not think about it. Do not think about it. Do not even think about it, I told myself, but my head turned again. His skin stretched over his chest, arms, abs like someone had packaged neatly defined sets of muscles in smooth, flawless skin. His stomach reminded me of the faceless guy on the 2(x)ist boxer brief packages at Bloomingdale's. I called on every ounce of self control not to reach out and touch him. Even in the most desirable of situations, I can normally keep it together. His heroic gesture had changed my emotions from confused and distraught to relieved and obliged, and that night I could not keep my movie-worthy desire in tact. He stepped towards me and my heart started to race. I pictured myself the way he found me babbling about having to go and wiping my eyes. He had pushed the sticky hair out of my face, and told me that it was all okay. I needn't worry. Some sleep would make me feel better and in the morning he would make certain everything worked out. The only other words that came out of my mouth were various forms of "Thank You," and when he looked over his shoulder at me, I thought I saw a hint of regret in his piercing blue eyes. What did he get himself into? 

But now his eyes looked different, and I with all of my mental might I attempted to repress every naked thought. But I failed. I am totally going to have sex with this guy, I thought. I stared back at my sleepwear. I probably won't need you. In the bathroom I changed my clothes and looked at myself in the mirror. Mascara was smeared under my eyes, but for the most part I still looked presentable. I adjusted my tank top, put on some chapstick and took a deep breath. You're tired. Just go to sleep and if you still feel this way, you can get naked with him in the morning. 

When we climbed into bed I stared at the ceiling. "I'm sorry again...that you're so distraught. You'll feel better in the morning. Goodnight," he said and rolled over. I glanced over at the shadows on his back creating mini mountain ranges. In my mind, I could hear my yoga instructor saying, "Focus on your breathing. Just you and your breath." I looked back to the ceiling. When he turned over onto his back, I wanted to look over to see if his eyes were open, but before I had the chance, he turned to face me. Like a magnet, I rolled over to face him and reached out to touch his chest. We stared at each other through the darkness. My hand was burning on his chest. Just a few more moments went by before we pounced on each other biting and clawing like to feral animals. My arms and legs wrapped around him while his mouth went up my neck, down my shoulder and around back to lips. I couldn't decide which part of him to touch first. I needed more hands. I needed all of his body touching all of my body. Like he read my mind, he stripped off my clothes and touched every inch of my skin. My eyes squeezed tightly together, and a small, desperate noise escaped from my mouth as he put himself inside of me. We rolled around the bed completely unaware of anything around us until finally, eventually we fell asleep.

In the morning, I thought I'd imagined the whole thing until I felt his arms pulling me into him. I looked in his eyes, wondering who is this guy was who heroically led me to tranquility. Then a small wave of panic took hold of me. Yeah, who is he? Where did he come from? He's basically a stranger. I basically had wonderful, mind-altering sex with a complete stranger. How do I know if he is really nice or maybe he is going to kidnap me and sell me? Am I too old to be sold? Maybe he won't even get that much money for me? Like he could sense my mind racing, he tilted his head and pressed his lips against mine. I was too tired and emotionally hungover to really process my concerns, so I found a spot in his arms and for a little while fell back asleep.

He didn't sell me.

Emma Dinzebach

It is very difficult for an artist to create in the absence of pain of sadness. Nobody wants to look at paintings popping up daisies in rays of sun day after day. Characters become dimensional in light of struggle, challenge, heartbreak and consequently we long to see similar (or grossly different) dynamic dramatizations unfold. Because I consider myself somewhat of an artist - a relatively new and externally encouraged insight - I require pain and suffering? Apparently so. For me, pain and suffering is the hardest part of being an artist. I'm just not that sad. Despite what you all may think, I'm not even that emotionally tormented. The biggest barrier to my creative capabilities is that I'm a healthy, well-adjusted individual. Gag.

Do One Thing A Day That Scares You

Thankfully, I woke up crabby and sad today and finally have a chance to paint in colors other than pink and yellow. Partially because I'm having some hormonal fluctuations, but largely due to the multitude of goodbyes I've said lately. Let me step back. I work in an awesome, upbeat, borderline surreal environment surrounded by people who are smart, dance how they feel, and elevate each other to greatness. Every morning when I look through my downward facing dog, I feel elated that I get to share my practice, my life, my spirit with them...and vice versa. In an ongoing effort to develop to our potential, we move around a lot. Saying goodbye is prelude to growth. But in the past few months, the dancefloor evacuations have been getting a little out of control. While I love my new sweat-once-a-day-sisters, eery, lonely silences remind me that something is missing and create small pangs of emptiness. The new people don't know that "Umbrella" is [still] my "jam." They don't know about "jams."

And the feeling extends. Some days I desperately miss the long days on the farm descending the imaginary stairs behind the bar and arguing over my sick (and uncharacteristic) devotion to Mayor Bloomberg. Other days I want to crawl back to my old life where I read the entire paper, wrote something and walked my Turkey, waiting for everyone else to get off of work. And then there are the days that I stare at the ceiling repressing the montage of movie-worthy moments - reminding myself that I can only go forward. Maybe I am that emotionally tormented, but in those tormented moments, even though I have to drag myself to the computer and force my butt to stay in the chair, that the windows open, and I write.

So Beas, Bon Bon, Blake and Genny - I should have said this a long time ago - but you have always been the rays of sunshine that make my life so poppy and pleasant. And now, thank you for creating the sad space in which I can create.